


The Long and Winding Road

by 1MissMolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Military, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 103,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23324992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1MissMolly/pseuds/1MissMolly
Summary: “Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked still laying on the couch.“I would think it would be very evident what I was doing, John.”John’s mind immediately wandered back to his dream. He and Sherlock in the shower together. John opened his eyes to see his imagination slip into reality. Sherlock’s pale shoulders visible and just as inviting. His dark curls messed from sleep. His long limbs only just concealed by the thin cotton sheet.John’s mouth dried and he quickly licked his lips. He needed to stop this immediately.A young medical student needs a tutor for his chemistry class. When he meets another young man who can tutor him, he had no idea how much his life was going to change.A story of John and Sherlock meeting at University and then over the next several years of their lives together and apart. Happiness and sadness. Pain and comfort. With a murder or two thrown in for fun. Broken into three parts and three different songs. I Can Treat You Better Than He Can, Jar of Hearts, and Someone You Used to Love.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 247
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out to just be about domestic violence working based on the song I Can Treat You Better by Sean Mendez but grew rapidly from there. KeelieThompson1 wrote a wonderful story called the Faithful Compass. She has subsequently taken the story down and is publishing it. This is kind of an homage to that story.

I Can Treat You Better Than He Can

Chapter One

John Watson had the pleasant soreness of hard exercise. His muscles hummed with the strain they had been through. He rubbed his shoulder where he had hit his opponent hard for a tackle. Knocking the other player into the turf and out of the match. John walked loose limbed into the locker room to the jeers and shouts of his rugby teammates. It had been a great game and they had won. The adrenaline was riding high tonight.

He already pulled off his uniform shirt and tossed it towards Lenard Wilderbrant. Wilderbrant was younger than John, studying Physical Fitness. He was the manager of John’s rugby team. It was a glorious title for an inglorious job. Wilderbrant was in charge of keeping track of all the equipment and uniforms. Cleaning said equipment and uniforms. And keeping the locker room organized, all the while being insulted and bullied by the players and ignored by the coaches.

John was one of the few members of the team that didn’t call Wilderbrant anything other than his name. The other players loved to call him insulting names and ridicule him constantly. John tried to keep a wary eye out for the young man, knowing that occasionally his teammates could get out of hand with their teasing and bullying.

Their last student manager was forced into the women’s locker room completely naked while the women’s team was getting ready for their match. The young man was humiliated beyond belief. The women’s coach had filed a formal complaint and threatened to file criminal charges against the young man. The student manager left school the next day. John wanted to make sure that didn’t happen to Wilderbrant.

“Thanks,” John muttered as Wilderbrant caught the stained and smelling shirt of John’s uniform.

The thin young man smiled at John. Then he was barraged by dirty laundry of three other players, including what appeared to be soiled pants. Wilderbrant’s smile quickly disappeared as he quickly snatched at the thrown garments. Swiftly shoving the dirty clothing into laundry bag.

John frowned at the antics of his teammates and went to his locker. He toed off his shoes and socks, then took off his shorts and pants in one go. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. Grabbing his shower bag, he went back over to Wilderbrant.

“Here,” he said as he handed the clothing to Wilderbrant.

The skinny blond man looked up into John’s face. He smiled again. It was a lopsided smile and John noticed anticipation in the young man’s eyes.

“Thanks, John. Good game.”

“Yeah.” John said not wanting to talk to the young man but also not wanting to appear rude.

“If you like, I could give you rub down later. I’m sure your shoulder is throbbing after that hit.” Wilderbrant offered.

The was laughter and jeering behind John.

“I’m sure there is something else throbbing on Watson, arse-licker,” heckled one of the players.

“Maybe Watson likes his arse licked,” teased another.

John turned and glared at the two troublemakers, Middleton and Borrow. They had been responsible for shoving the pervious student manager into the woman’s locker room and forcing him to quit. It appeared they decided Wilderbrant was gay and were going to bully him until he quit too.

“Fuck off,” John huffed and walked off, not looking at the crushed expression on Wilderbrant’s face.

John went into the shower room and stepped under one of the shower heads. He turned it on and enjoyed the blast of hot water on his skin. Several other players were already showering. They were laughing and congratulating each other on a great game. Several men slapped John in good nature as they walked passed.

“Great game, Watson.” Or “way to show them.” Were repeated in the room. One man came up to John and said, “Hell of a tackle, John. I bet that wanker will think twice about taking on a scrapper like you again.”

John smiled and nodded his head. “Thanks, Alfie.”

John watched as the dark-haired man turned and walked away. John’s eyes lingered on the man’s naked body. Suddenly, John realized he had made a mistake. He looked just a moment too long. His body started to react to the image of the man’s body. The smooth skin taut over muscle and bone. He could feel a stirring a desire bloom inside himself. It was something he could never allow to happen.

John was at UCL on a rugby scholarship. He needed the scholarship to finish his prerequisites before he went into clinical rotations for medicine. He couldn’t do anything that would jeopardize that scholarship.

John was adamant his was not gay. He couldn’t be. He wouldn’t be. But as he stood in the showers after games, he had to control himself. He had to keep his eyes down and not stare at the beautiful masculine bodies of the other players. He needed to keep his mind fixed on anything other than the desire to know what it would feel like to slide his palm over that smooth wet skin. To press his body against other hard bodies. To taste another man’s sweat.

He shivered as he felt his cock twitch. The laughter in the room continued and the congratulatory comments meant no one had noticed him yet. John reached over and turned the water cooler as he concentrated on chemistry. Maybe thinking about chemistry would get his mind off of wanting to grab Alfie and snog him half to death.

John finished washing under the cold water. His mind fixed on the biochemical formula for anaerobic respiration when he heard Alfie speaking softly in his ear.

“Will we see you tonight?”

John just about jumped out of his skin. “What?” his voice shaky and confused.

“The party at Judy’s. Will you and Jeannette be there? Or do you have another one on the hook?” Alfie asked.

John quickly came back to himself. “Yeah, the party. Jeannette and I will be there. No problem. Do you need us to bring anything?”

“No, I’m sure she’s got it covered.” Alfie smiled and walked out of the shower.

John forced himself to not watch the team captain leave. His towel wrapped low over his hips. John quickly turned off the water and reached for his towel. Several of the rugby players were now roughhousing in the shower. Middleton and Borrow were actually trying to wrestle one of the new players to the floor. John knew it was time to leave and quickly.

He stepped out of the shower room and grabbed a second towel. He was drying himself off as he walked back to his locker. The shouts from the shower had finally drawn the attention of one of the coaches and the older gruff man walked into the steamy room fully dressed. John heard the man yell out several names and the laughter stop.

John quickly dressed. He had only an hour before he needed to pick his girlfriend up and get to Alfie and Judy’s party. There was always a party at their flat after a winning game. John often wondered if they lost a game would Judy simply throw all the food away or eat on it for the rest of week. He knew the alcohol wouldn’t get tossed but saved for the next win.

John sat on the bench as he tied his trainers. His hair was spiky from the shower and his shirt clung slightly to his still damp skin.

“John?”

He glanced up to see Wilderbrant standing next to his locker.

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if you would like that massage?” Wilderbrant seemed hesitant as he asked.

John could feel the twist in his gut. He realized that Wilderbrant was not asking about massage but something else. Something more – intimate. John’s scholarship hung before his eyes. The coaches of the team weren’t homophobic but they weren’t open minded either.

“No, I’m okay. I can barely notice it anymore,” he lied. John’s shoulder ached. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

It was like a dance. The slow and measured conversation with several different levels of implications. The subtilties and covert meanings to every word and nuance. Wilderbrant knew that John understood what was being offered and he realized John was turning him down. He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“Okay, alright. No problem. But if you ever need . . .”

“I won’t be.” John said coolly as he glanced around the locker room. No one was paying any attention to the two of them.

“Okay.”

John could see the crushed expression on the younger man’s face. But John couldn’t let his sympathies ruin his future. He needed to be on the rugby team because he needed the scholarship to stay in school. He needed to stay in school to become a doctor, because that is all he ever wanted to be since he was a young boy. John had a plan. A path to get to where he wanted to be. And a dalliance with another male student wasn’t anywhere along that path.

~221~

Alfie and Judy’s flat was crowded and loud. The music was competing with people’s conversations for volume. John was leaning against a wall watching the crowd swarm back and forth. The beer in his hand was getting warm. It was his second in an hour and he was forcing himself to drink this one slowly. Both his father and sister had a problem with alcohol and John wanted to make sure he didn’t fall into the same abyss they found themselves in.

Across the room was John’s date, Jeannette Wilcox. She was a pretty woman of West Indies extraction. Her café latte skin was smooth and accentuated her large inquisitive eyes. Jeannette was studying to be a primary school teacher. She adored children and seemed to feel that was the only prerequisite to being a good teacher.

She glanced up from her conversation with Judy and smiled at John. Her smiles covered her whole face. All the way up into her curly dark hair. John smiled back, lifting his beer bottle at her in a toast. Jeannette seemed to notice the bottle for the first time and frowned. She said something to Judy and then walked across the crowded room towards John.

He held his free arm out to her and wrapped it around her shoulder once she was close enough to him.

“Don’t drink too much tonight,” she scowled.

“I’m not,” John said trying to not sound annoyed.

“I want you to come home with me and later we can . . . you know.”

John wondered why she was being so shy. Everyone at the party knew they were a couple. They knew that John and Jeannette were sleeping together.

“It’s only my second beer and I’m nursing it.”

“You should have stopped at one. Or even not started. Why couldn’t you drink coke or something like that?”

John was getting more frustrated with her. He was won a game tonight. This was supposed to be a celebration.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry,” he growled.

“You know your father and sister started just like this.” Jeannette continued ignoring the fact that John had pulled his arm away from her shoulders and was standing slightly further away from her.

“It is not how it started with them, and I’m not an alcoholic either. It is two beers after a game.” John ire was growing with Jeannette. He never told her everything about his youth. She didn’t know what it was like, but she had made assumptions. She decide she knew better than he did. And he was foolish for not listening to her.

“Well, if you don’t want to take me home, then just keep drinking. I won’t be around a drunk.” She snipped back at him.

“I’m not drunk, Jeannette.” John was beginning to wish he was.

Suddenly, another person stepped up to the two of them. “John! Finally. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

John glanced at the newcomer and realized it was his classmate Mike Stamford. Relieved that ridiculous conversation about his drinking was placed on hold, he eagerly greeted his classmate and friend.

“Mike, hello. Do you know my girlfriend, Jeannette?”

Mike smiled at the irritated woman. There were several other things she wanted to berate John with but now she couldn’t with a witness present.

“Hello, nice to meet you.” She said as dispassionately as she could.

Mike didn’t notice and took her hand and shook it enthusiastically. He then turned to John and smiled.

“I have a solution to your problem,” Mike said confidently.

“My problem?” John wasn’t sure what Mike was talking about. For a brief moment he thought Mike was talking about Jeannette.

“Chemistry. You told me the other day that you were having difficulty with chemistry.”

The conversation quickly came back to John. He was having a very difficult time with the class and was falling behind badly. If he didn’t quickly pick up the information he was going to fail and then there would be another reason to worry about losing his scholarship.

“Yeah, Crowley’s class.” John hated Professor Crowley and his nasally lectures. John was constantly failing to understand what the man was talking about.

“I found you a tutor.” Mike said still smiling.

“A tutor? But I can’t afford a tutor.”

“Don’t worry about it. He is a student here and he was willing to teach for trade.”

“Trade? What do I have that he would want to trade for?” John asked, suspicious of the offer.

“I’ll let him explain it to you.”

“Is he any good?” John asked. “I mean does he understand the subject?”

“He is the teaching assistant to Crowley. According to some of the professors, he knows more about biochemistry that Crowley does.” Mike said smugly.

“What’s his name?”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and the kudos. I hope you like the next chapter.

John Watson was eight years old when his father gave him his first black eye. His father was more than a bully. He was cruel. He enjoyed hurting anyone who couldn’t fight back. Alcohol just made him worse. John quickly learned to hide from the man if he had been drinking. John was eleven when he and his older sister would flee the house when their father came home drunk. They stayed out all night, and wandered the city trying to find some place safe to sleep. Sometimes, they found a building open where they could hide. Most nights it was doorways and back alleys, behind bens. One night, after their father had caught up to them and given John’s sister a bruised jaw, they left for good. As the two of them huddled together for warmth, he promised himself that he would never let anyone hurt him again. He would never let anyone he cared about be hurt. That night, eleven-year-old John Watson made a plan. He would never be afraid again. 

John promised himself he would protect himself and he would protect those he cared about. He wouldn’t just get a job but a career. He’d work hard and get to a position where he could be safe and he could keep his sister safe. He would become a doctor. 

When John was fifteen, his sister, Harriet was working as a waitress. They lived in a cramped flat. She worked two jobs so John could stay in school. He worked hard and got a scholarship for UCL. He studied every night and got good grades. They talked about the future and what they would do. How wonderful it would be once he was doctor and he could take care of both of them. It was difficult but John was happy for first time in his life. He had a future. 

Then Harriet started to drink. She started when her first relationship with another woman ended with a screaming match and broken dishes. Then Harriet insisted she be called Harry and she started wearing more masculine clothing. She got drunk every night and ended up losing one of her jobs. John got a job, stocking the shelves at Waitrose, late at night. He’d come home and find his sister passed out in flat. An empty vodka bottle beside her. 

John struggled but he got through most of his classes. When the question of his clinical rotations came up, John knew he was going to have to take a different path from his classmate. Upon the recommendations from his advisor, John went to the Army recruiter and discussed his options. After several weeks of physicals and tests, he signed his commitment papers. He would do his clinical rotations while he was enlisted. The Army would pay for his training and he would get a salary while he studied. He could finally start paying Harry back for everything she had done for him. She promised to get sober when he told her about the army. He would become a doctor and have the training of a soldier. The brother and sister didn’t have to worry again about being helpless and being afraid. 

The only thing to stand in the way of this plan was chemistry.

John and Mike Stanford walked through the halls of St. Bartholomew Hospital. Mike was glancing into the various labs as they walked down the halls. He paused at one door and smiled. 

“In here.” 

John followed Mike into the small chemistry lab. John glanced around at the various instruments and equipment. He barely noticed the man sitting at the microscope. 

“What’ch think?” Mike asked. He seemed to be withholding laughter. 

John looked around. “Not like our study hall.” 

“Mike, I need to use your phone.” The man sitting down said. 

John turned and looked at him finally. He was sitting but John knew he would be taller than himself. He had dark raven hair with soft unkept curls. His skin was pale and tight over sharp cheek bones. The man appeared skinny under his dark suit. John thought he could do with a meal or two. He needed at least another ten to fifteen pounds to look health. 

“Why?” Mike asked the man. 

“I need to make a call and I don’t want Victor to know about it.” 

“Sorry, I don’t have it on me,” Mike said. 

The stranger turned towards John and raised an eyebrow. 

“Sorry, I don’t have a mobile,” John said honestly. He couldn’t really afford one. 

“Is it a specific area of Chemistry you are having difficulty with or the course in general?” The stranger asked. 

John was struck dumb for a moment. His mouth dropped open and his eyes darted between the stranger and Mike. 

“Ah . . . I . . . ah . . . how did you know I was having problems with Chemistry?” John asked confused. 

“I mentioned to Mike that I needed a medical student with access to the morgue. He brought you to me and it obvious that you are a student by your comment about study hall. You appear to be in school on a scholarship based on your appearance.” 

“My appearance?” John asked still confused. 

“Your face and hands are tan. You are outside often. Unusual for someone studying to be a doctor. Why would you be outside, more than just exercise, more likely it is required. Sports scholarship. You have a bruise on your hand and one on the side of your face. You could have been in a fight, but you don’t have bruised knuckles or any other defensive injuries. So an aggressive sport activity. UCL just had a rugby match last night. So you are more than likely a medical student who is here on a rugby scholarship and you are need of assistance to maintain your scholarship. You are suffering academically. The fact that I’m excellent tutor in Chemistry would be the only reason why Mike would be inclined to introduce us.”

The stranger finished and waited for John to respond. John stood there dumbfounded wondering what had just happened. 

“You couldn’t have gotten all that from my appearance.” He turned to Mike. “You told him.” 

“No,” Mike smiled. “That just what he does.” 

John blinked several times then turned back to the stranger. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes?” 

“Yes, and you are my new student.” 

“Wait, I don’t know. I can’t pay you anything.” 

“I told you, I need someone with access to the morgue. You are taking anatomy?”

“Yes, but why do you need to get into the morgue?” John asked. 

“I study the corpses. I have been given permission to examine the bodies but I must be accompanied by a fellow student,” Sherlock explained. 

“You examine them? You’re not supposed to touch them before autopsy!” John began to wonder if Sherlock was mentally unbalanced. 

“I don’t perform examinations on them. I examine them. I look at the injuries and the indications of disease. Did you know that people with heart disease with have creases in their earlobes?” 

“Yes, I did but . . .” John thought that maybe he had fallen through the ‘Rabbit’s Hole’ and this was some strange prank being pulled on him.

“If you don’t believe me, talk to Professor Adams. He will explain the arrangement,” Sherlock said waving John off. He returned his attention to the microscope.

“But I still don’t understand,” John pleaded. 

“It’s okay, John,” Mike finally said. “I was Sherlock’s keeper last semester.” 

“I don’t need a keeper.” Sherlock snapped. 

Mike ignored him and kept talking to John. “We would go down to the morgue once or twice a week. Usually at night. He would look the bodies over. Take measurements and occasionally sniff them.” 

“Sniff them?” John looked confused.

“You can distinguish Ketoacidosis from insulin overdose based on the scent of acetone,” Sherlock interrupted. 

Mike continued. “I usually sat in the corner and read a book. He might pick up their hands and examine them. Or look closely at their eyes and hair, but he never takes anything.” Mike turned and glared at Sherlock. “He has been given very specific instructions to not take anything.” 

John glanced back over at Sherlock. “Why?” 

“Because Dr. Adams is an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “I need samples for testing.” 

“Not that! And I realize Adams is an idiot for even letting you into the morgue in the first place, but why do you want to do this?” John asked. 

“It’s for research. I’m collecting information so I can become a consulting detective.” 

“A police officer?” 

“No, a consulting detective.” 

John shook his head and knew he really had fallen down the ‘Rabbit’s Hole’. Any minute now he would see ‘Alice’ chasing her white rabbit. 

“Okay, I’ll do it but you must promise me that you are a good tutor. I need that grade if I’m going to keep my scholarship,” John sighed. 

“You won’t regret it,” Sherlock said, but John didn’t believe him.

~221~

John sat and watched as Sherlock sped through the Chemistry problems explaining exactly how each one worked. Sherlock was concise and intuitive to John’s confusion. He explained things slowly but not childishly. By the end of the first tutoring session, John felt he learned more from Sherlock than he had for the first six weeks with his professors. 

“You are remarkable,” John said as he was able to complete the assigned worked as Sherlock watched. 

Sherlock glance over at John for a moment with a surprised look on his face. “Ah . . . thanks.” 

“What? No one ever told you that you are remarkable, because you are,” John smiled at the other man. 

“Well, no. I’m not used to hearing that.” Sherlock said. “Let’s move on to pharmacokinetics. The receptors of opioids are . . .” 

“Sherlock,” John reached out and place his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Thank you. You’re really saving me.” 

Sherlock tensed as soon as John touched him. He looked sideways at the man waiting for – something. John noticed and slowly took his hand back. John thought the man probably didn’t like being touched by another man. It was common. 

John looked at his watch. “Oh, crap! I need to go.” 

Sherlock looked at him confused. “Why?” 

“We’ve been here for three hours. I have a practice to get to.” 

“Three hours!?” 

John noticed Sherlock pale even more. The man frantically looked around the room then quickly grabbed his books. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock mumbled as he hugged the books to his chest. 

He took two running steps towards the door when it opened and another man entered. 

He was tall and narrow. His dark brown hair was slicked back over a very round skull. His cheekbones were sharp and gave his face almost a skeleton like appearance. He was older as Sherlock and John. His eyes were hazel blue and darted around. He wore dark jeans that made his hips look even narrower and a pale grey jersey. 

“Victor!” Sherlock gasped. “I’m sorry, I lost track of the time.” 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, darling.” Victor said in a syrupy tone. He glanced briefly at John then returned his attention to Sherlock. He stepped closer and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling the young man forward for a searing kiss. 

Sherlock held the books tight to chest like a shield. He willing allowed himself to be kissed, but it was almost a submission instead of a participation. John realized he was wrong about Sherlock not wanting to be touched by another man. Sherlock was obviously gay.

Victor continued to kiss longer than customarily acceptable. If made John feel uncomfortable. John shifted uneasily on his feet and glanced towards the door, wanting to escape, when Victor ended the kiss and turned to face John. A smug expression on his face. His hand still wrapped tightly around the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“So you are my darling’s little project this semester,” Victor asked John.

“Victor, this is John Watson. He is studying medicine,” Sherlock said in a soft voice. 

“Oh he is? Tell me, John, have you been playing ‘doctor’ with my precious little Sherlock?” 

The implication was evident. John blushed and felt suddenly embarrassed to even be in the same room as the other two men. 

“No, of course not.” 

“Well, you should. He’s not very good at anything else,” Victor turned and looked at Sherlock. 

John noticed Sherlock shrink back away from the older man. Sherlock wanted to move away, but Victor’s hand still gripped the back of the younger man’s neck. John hardened his expression. The corners of his mouth dipped down as he glared at the intruder. 

“Sherlock is an excellent Chemistry tutor. He is helping me and I will help him when I can.” 

“You – help him? What could you possibly help Sherlock with?” Victor’s eyes scanned up and down John’s body. Giving him a dismissive nod.

“John is going to accompany me to the morgue,” Sherlock whispered. 

John noticed Sherlock wince. He realized Victor had just pinched Sherlock’s neck painfully. A wave of anger surged through him. He wanted to punch the man for hurting someone who was obviously unprepared to protect himself. 

“Dr. Adams requested I accompany Sherlock to exam the bodies there,” John said hoping the name of one of the professors would defuse the situation.

“The morgue? Sherlock are you still wasting your time with that again? I thought that you were done with that once that glutinous insipid Stamford dropped out.”

John’s desire to punch the man increased. 

“Mike didn’t drop out. He is still a student here. And who are you?” John asked. 

Victor’s eyes narrowed at John. 

“This is my fiancé, Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said quickly. “He works in the city. Executive at one of the banking firms.” 

“Junior . . .” John paused. “Executive – going by your age, you couldn’t have a very important position at any firm.” 

Sherlock paled again. 

“Important enough.” Victor said coolly. 

Sherlock glanced back and forth between the two men. He could tell they were each sizing the other up for a fight. 

“We should be going, Victor,” Sherlock said. “It’s late and I would like to go home, please.” 

John was shocked in the change in Sherlock. The arrogant and impolite genius had disappeared and been replaced by a mousy and cowed young man.

Victor stared for another two heartbeats then sighed. “Yes, darling. It is time I get you home and into bed.”

Victor dropped his hand away from Sherlock’s neck. A deep red bruise could be seen peaking out under Sherlock’s curls. The pale skin already marred. Sherlock bowed his head and turned to walk towards the door. Victor hesitated in following Sherlock, still staring at John. 

“Sherlock won’t be needing your assistance any longer. I suggest you find another tutor.” 

“I said he is helping me and I will help him any way I can. And that is all there is to say.” 

Victor smiled. “We’ll see.” 

Victor turned away and walked up to Sherlock, taking the younger man by the elbow and pushing him out of the room. 

John knew that someday he would be punching that smug face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	3. You Can Tell Me If I'm Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of drug use in the beginning of this chapter.

You Can Tell Me If I'm Off

Sherlock sat naked on the bathroom floor. The syringe balance carefully between his fingers. The clear liquid slipping silently into his veins. Sherlock was using the vein in his ankle for this hit. Victor didn’t like it when he used his forearms. _‘It’s too visible,’_ Victor would complain when Sherlock did. He didn’t want to get Victor angry at himself again. Victor could be very cruel if he was angry.

Sherlock removed the needle from his vein and released the tourniquet. A warmth traveled up his leg and into his body. The drug seemed to take longer to hit his brain when he did it this way, but it kept Victor happy. And keeping Victor happy was important to Sherlock. He wanted the man happy so he wouldn’t leave.

The heroin made Sherlock’s body feel light and mobile. He leaned back against the bathroom wall. It was warm in the room and he didn’t mind being naked. He stretched his long legs out in front of himself and closed his eyes. He let the opium play with him for a few moments before it overwhelmed him and pulled him down where his mind could finally shut down and be quiet. Just a few blessed moments of silence.

Flashes of memories played across Sherlock’s closed eyelids. Moments and people. He sighed as he thought about Victor and how angry he was when they had gotten home from Sherlock’s tutoring session with John. Sherlock’s wrist still hurt from where Victor had twisted it up behind his back before he shoved him down across the table and pulled his trousers down. Victor had been brutal. Claiming Sherlock as his own. Ignoring the other man’s pleas. But Sherlock knew the heroin would take the pain away and Sherlock would endure anything as long as Victor would stay and not leave him.

Sherlock’s mind moved to John Watson. The young medical student with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They were warm and inviting. Kind. Not like Victor’s eyes. John had been kind. He had said kind things. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been kind to him.

When he was sent off to boarding school by his older brother, the boys at the school had been vicious to him. They knew Sherlock was different and treated him that way. Their taunts and beatings. Sherlock was frightened and felt alone. Then Victor found him. He said he like Sherlock just the way he was. He would take care of him. Sherlock was only sixteen but it was wonderful to have someone care about him. He would put up with anything if someone would just care.

The heroin finally reached all of Sherlock’s receptors. His body sagged and slid further down the wall. He laid naked on the floor of the bathroom as the drug took away his anguish, both physical and emotional. He was floating away on a blue sea. The same shade of blue as John’s eyes.

~221~

_The dream started like many of John’s other dreams, he was playing rugby. He was running hard and the crowds were cheering. He could hear his teammates calling to him. He heard the grunting of the other men on the field. He dreamed he made a goal and the he was elated._

_The dream moved into the locker room. Wilderbrant was there, but he was dressed differently. He wore a suit with white flannel trousers and a jacket with broad pink and white vertical strips. He wore a white straw boater on his head. There was a pink carnation in his buttonhole. He looked like some cartoon character. He smiled broadly at John and ignored all the laundry gathering at his feet._

_In the dream, John walked passed him without speaking. He went into the shower room. The room was full of steam and the other players were difficult to see. A blast of hot water cascaded over John and made him feel good. The water traveled down his body and over his skin. Smoothing and caressing him as it went. John could hear his teammates laughing and sound of horseplay. He was happy. Then there was whisper in his hear._

_“Will I see you tonight?”_

_John turned in the dream expecting to see Alfie, but it wasn’t his teammate. It was Sherlock._

_John couldn’t see anything of the man below his shoulders, but John knew he was naked. The steam gathered in his dark hair, leaving droplets of water. Silvery orbs dotted through the raven curls. John couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. All his body wanted to do was reach out and touch the smooth skin of Sherlock’s naked body._

_“Will I see you tonight?” Sherlock asked again. “I want to see you.”_

John woke with a start. His heart was pounding and his limbs felt pinned to the bed.

“Shhhiitt.” John hissed softly.

He wasn’t sure where the dream came from, but he found it disturbing and difficult to forget. He sat up and looked at the clock. It was already eight o’clock. He was going too late to class if he didn’t hurry.

The lectures and professors didn’t drown out the sound of dream Sherlock’s voice. _“Will I see you tonight?”_ John realized that tonight was the first night he was supposed to accompany Sherlock to the morgue.

“More like babysitting,” he mumbled to himself as he walked between classes.

John met up with Mike Stamford at lunch. He had questions about the enigmatic man.

“What is going on between Sherlock and his boyfriend?” John asked.

“Oh you met the man. Real piece of work, that one is.” Mike said before he took a bite of sandwich. “Sherlock and I had been going to the morgue for about two months before Victor showed up. First time I ever saw him and he made a point of being as insulting and condescending as possible. Made some joke about me not being smart enough to get through school.”

“Yeah, he seems very sure of himself.” John commented as he ate the last of his crisps.

“It’s all kinda’ creepy. He’s about ten years older than Sherlock. Met him when Sherlock was sixteen. By the time Sherlock was seventeen, they were living together. He has some job in the city, banking I think. He always has cash to throw around. He doesn’t like anyone talking to Sherlock though. He is very suspicious of anyone who gets too close to the man.”

“Is he abusive to Sherlock?” John asked. John kept his eyes down and tried to not act overly concerned.

Mike leaned back in his chair and wrinkled his eyebrows. “I didn’t think so, but it would explain a few things if he is.”

“Like what?” John looked up.

“Well, you noticed how Sherlock controls every conversation he is in. He makes assumptions, which are usually right, the bastard, and he is two steps ahead of everyone else. He is the center of attention and likes to preen like a peacock. But when Victor is around, he is quiet and subdued. He defers everything to Victor. And he will do whatever Victor tells him to do.” Mike explained.

“Did Victor tell him to quit going to the morgue?”

Mike smiled and giggled slightly. “I don’t think even Victor can make Sherlock stop doing that. He is so intent on becoming this ‘consulting detective’, whatever that is, that he won’t stop just because his boyfriend tells him to do so.”

“Would he leave Victor? I mean would that be something that would push the two of them apart?” John asked.

“Never. Sherlock is practically chained to the man. And Victor enjoys his reflection in Sherlock’s eyes. To Sherlock, he is the perfect man. No, neither one would ever leave the other. They are too much in love.”

John studied Mike’s face for a few moments. He could see the man was being completely honest with him. Why wouldn’t Mike be honest with him? Sherlock was in love with Victor and it really wasn’t any of John’s business even if Victor didn’t deserve it.

Mike wadded up the trash from his lunch and took the last sip of the cold drink. “Off to Chemistry. Are you ready this time?”

John smiled. “More now than ever before, thanks to Sherlock.”

“Regardless of whatever Victor said, John, Sherlock will be there tonight. He is counting on you to be there to.” Mike said sincerely.

“I know. I will be.”

He decided the dream had more to do with the agreed meeting in the morgue than anything else. He decided he would do what Mike had done and ignore the man as best he could. John would take his Pathobiology book to the morgue that night. He was positive reading about infectious diseases would take his mind off of Sherlock Holmes.

~221~

Sherlock was waiting for John by the doors to the morgue. He seemed to be nervous and pacing back and forth. When he saw John walking up, he seemed relieved.

“Finally! Glad to see you made it. I was concerned,” Sherlock said.

“I would have thought you would be the no show. I mean your – fiancé told you not to come,” John sounded patronizing.

Sherlock glanced at him with a bewildered expression on his face. Then a veil seemed to descend over the younger man’s expression.

“Victor is not the owner of me. I know that some people like to talk . . .” Sherlock started.

“They rarely do anything else,” John interrupted.

Sherlock froze for a moment, as he studied John’s face. “I know Victor can be grating. His idea of humor is outside the common . . .”

“Or ever polite society. Look, it’s none of my business. I’m here because you’re helping me out, so I’m helping you out.”

“Quid, pro, quo?”

“Exactly,” John said.

Sherlock hesitated again then said, “thank you.”

They entered the morgue and got to work.

John tried to ignore Sherlock. He really tried. He sat in the corner and opened his Pathobiology textbook. He got two pages read, when he started glancing up at Sherlock and watching him, before returning the book. He got halfway through the chapter before he gave up and came over to watch what Sherlock was doing.

The young man was examining the hand of the deceased then glancing back to crime scene photos. The photos were from the autopsy file that Sherlock had read as soon as he entered the lab. John glanced down at the man on the table. He was an older white male. He was obese but not morbidly. There were signs of heart disease and possible high blood pressure in his eyes and skin. But his cause of death was evident. The single gunshot wound to the side of his head.

“What are you looking at?” John asked.

“This man was listed as a suicide.” Sherlock said not looking up at John. Sherlock held a magnifying glass as he looked at the skin of the man’s right hand.

“Obviously.” John comment. “Single ‘GSW’ to the right side of the head. It was a contact wound. There is stippling and soot around the wound. The development of the man’s right arm indicates his was right-handed. What is so fascinating about his right hand?” He expected that Sherlock would be impressed by John’s observations.

He wasn’t.

“He didn’t shoot the gun,” Sherlock said.

“What? How do you know?” John stepped closer. “Was the gunshot residue test negative?”

Sherlock huffed out a condescending laugh. “GSR testing has been discounted for years now. It’s only popular in the movies and on TV.”

“Oh,” John said. He had no idea the test was no longer being done. “But I thought it tested to see who shot the gun?”

“It tests for compounds found after a shot has been fired. It is a qualitative test not quantitative. If a gun is fired in a room of people, everyone in the room will be positive. No legitimate lab will test for ‘GSR’ on a victim of a gunshot wound because they obviously were present when a gun was fired. Also there are far too many false positives from creams and perfumes. The FBI hasn’t used the test in homicides cases for almost a decade.”

“Oh, okay. So how do you know he didn’t shoot himself then?” John asked feeling very unsure of himself all at once.

“The path of the bullet was right to left and slightly forwards but on the level. The imprint of the muzzle on the skin shows the gun was held perpendicular to the floor. Therefore if the dearly departed had held the gun, it would have been at an angle in which the action of the gun would bruise the skin between the thumb and the forefinger.” Sherlock held the hand up to show that the dead man’s hand was pristine from bruises or cuts.

“What if he used a revolver?” John asked.

“Very good, John, you’re thinking. But the imprint of the muzzle is very distinctive. It belongs to a Colt 0380 Pocket Pistol.” Sherlock pointed to the faint bruise on the skin of the entrance wound. It was difficult to see, but the imprint of the upper half of a barrel with a slight inverted crown above it was visible.

“That is very little to go on. It could be any type of automatic.” John said.

“Well, yes, but a Model M, 380 ACP made in 1945 was found in the dead man’s hand.” Sherlock held up a photo of the dead man’s hand with the old gun still resting in his palm.

“That’s not right,” John said as he reached for the photo.

“Why?” Sherlock asked raising an eyebrow.

“I know something about guns and if you shoot yourself with this type of weapon, you can’t hold on to it afterwards. It would jump out of your grip.”

Sherlock smiled. He quickly took the photo back from John. “I need to make a phone call.”

He started to rush out of the room. “Who are you going to call this time of night?”

“The detective in charge. He needs to know he is investigating a homicide now instead of a suicide!” Sherlock ran from the room like a child running for presents on Christmas morning. Leaving John alone in the morgue with the dead man.

~221~

The next day, John was in the study room waiting for Sherlock to show up. He wondered how Sherlock’s conversation with the detective went. He really wished he had gone with Sherlock. He would have enjoyed watching Sherlock’s mind work. It was like watching an intricate dance.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Sherlock was five minutes late. John’s foot started tapping nervously on the floor as he waited. He enjoyed being with Sherlock last night in the morgue and wondered if he could convince the young man to go sooner than the following week.

The door opened and John jumped out of chair.

“What did they say?” John blurted out.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment then frowned. “They didn’t believe me.”

“What!? The idiots!”

Sherlock seemed perplexed by John. “You believed me?”

“Of course. You explained everything clearly to me. You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. It was obvious that he was murdered.”

A slight blush came to Sherlock’s pale cheeks.

“Thank you, John.” He fumbled in his pockets for a moment. “I got this for you.” Sherlock held out his hand.

John glanced down and noticed the small mobile phone. “Sherlock?”

“You said you didn’t have one and I might need to text you. It wasn’t expensive and you need one so I got it for you. You were very helpful last night.”

“But Sherlock, a phone? I mean, I can’t . . .” John’s eyes were still locked on the phone when he noticed something odd about Sherlock’s wrist.

He reached down but instead of taking the phone out of Sherlock’s hand, he took Sherlock’s hand and held it while he pushed Sherlock’s sleeve back and exposed the bruised wrist. The marks were blackish blue and new. They encircled the wrist and were the size of another person’s hand.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

John looked back up at Sherlock’s face. Nothing seemed different, then he noticed something along Sherlock’s neck. John reached up and gently pushed Sherlock’s hair out of the way. Four oblong bruises marred the young man’s skin. Four bruises like someone’s hand had gripped Sherlock’s neck and held him down.

“Did Victor do this?” John asked. His voice calm and soft. He knew he didn’t want to scare Sherlock.

“It was my fault. I came back too late. I took too long.” The words rushed out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Sherlock, you didn’t do anything wrong. There was no reason for Victor to do this.” John said as calmly as he could. Inside he was twisting. He wanted to wrap his hands around Victor’s neck and hold him down. “Are you hurt elsewhere?”

“NO.” It came out too fast and too emphatic to be true.

“Sherlock, it’s not your fault. You don’t need to be afraid.”

“Victor didn’t hurt me. He didn’t mean it.”

“You are too intelligent to think that is true. He is abusing you. He is hurting you.” John said as he still held Sherlock’s hand. The phone pressed between their palms.

“No, no, no, he loves me. He told me his loves me. He’s the only one who does.”

John saw the fear in Sherlock’s eyes. He knew that fear personally. “Sherlock, that isn’t love. Trust me. I know.”

Sherlock looked down at his bruised wrist. _How many times had he seen similar bruises on dead bodies?_

“I can’t . . .” he whispered.

“Sherlock, please . . . before it’s too late.”

The door of the study room opened and Victor Trevor walked in. He saw John and for the briefest of moments pure hatred could been seen on his face. Then it disappeared and the suave businessman appeared.

“Sherlock, why are you upset?” Victor asked. His voice soothing and caring.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock pulled his hand back from John’s. He twisted and turned away from the two men.

“What have you been saying to my fiancé?” Victor asked, glaring at John.

“None of your business, but if you must know . . .”

Sherlock quickly turned and stared at John. John could see the pleading in Sherlock’s eyes.

“If you must know, I was telling him he was right the police bollocks the homicide last night.” John finished.

“The homicide? Yes, Sherlock told me about that.” Victor looked back at Sherlock. The younger man’s expression was blank and emotionless. “It is a shame that no one listened to my darling.”

“Sherlock doesn’t need to worry any more, because I will listen to him.” John said.

Victor turned back and frowned at John. “I’m all that Sherlock needs. Come along, Sherlock. We have people we need to see.”

“But . . .” Sherlock started.

“I said come along.” Victor growled.

Sherlock ducked his head and started to follow Victor. John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm.

“You don’t need to go. You don’t have to go with him if you don’t want too.” John said quietly.

Sherlock gave John a pleading look then turned and pulled away. Victor smiled at the door as Sherlock walked passed him and out the door.

“Goodbye, Mister Nobody. You won’t be seeing us again.”

Anger boiled inside John. The anger and fear he felt as a child. All the shame and anxiety of living with an abuser.

John looked down at his closed fist and saw the phone that Sherlock had given him. He pressed the button and noticed there was one contact listed. He opened the file and saw Sherlock’s name and number.


	4. But I Can See It on Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I reply to comments on my stories. But during these first few difficult chapters I just can't. But after this one, I will be returning to my normal practice of answering everyone. Thank you for the warm and kind comments. It is a difficult subject to start with. But this will be the last chapter dealing directly with domestic violence.

But I Can See It on Your Face

John was still fuming by the time he reached his flat. He wanted to punch Victor Trevor’s poncy face. Just like he wanted to punch his own father’s face. He hated both me for the same reason. They were brutes. Abusers. Bullies who found pleasure in hurting the weak. But John couldn’t do anything like that. He couldn’t punch Victor. He couldn’t use his fists on his father. He couldn’t do anything that might jeopardize his enrollment in school and then his future.

He opened the door to his flat with a bang. The door slamming into the wall. It rattled a framed picture hanging on the wall. John’s anger was still burning brightly as he marched in and tripped over a suitcase in the middle of front room. His sister’s suitcase.

John was looking down at the open suitcase. Harry’s clothes were tossed into it haphazardly. As he stared down at it, he heard the sound of clinking glass and muttering from the open bathroom door. The sound of breaking glass and his sister cursing.

“Bollocks!”

“Harry?” John went to the opened bathroom door. “What’s wrong?”

Harriet Watson came out of the tiny room. She weaved slightly as she bounced off the door frame. In her hands were several bottles of shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste and other toiletries.

“Noth’n,” she slurred.

Her clothing was disheveled and her short blond hair was fallen across her brow and into her eyes. She was wearing the clothes she normally worked in. Black slacks and a pale blue oxford. But she was barefoot. She weaved slightly as she walked down the narrow hall and into the kitchen. He could smell the alcohol on her.

John sighed and slumped. His sister was drunk again.

“Why aren’t you at work?” John asked.

“I quit.”

“What?” John followed his sister into the small kitchen. It was actually just a bank of counters and a small hob that took up one corner in the small front room of the flat.

Harry dumped the bottles in her hands into a box. Then she opened the cabinets and started removing things to add to the box. Dropping them in randomly, without regard if they got broken or not.

“I quit, are ya’ deaf as well as stupid.” Harry grabbed a cup then dropped it onto the counter. It shattered.

“Watch out!” John grabbed his sister and pulled her back.

Harry stumbled and fell into him. Then she tried to push herself back, flaying her arms about.

“Let’em go,” she slurred. “I’m leaving.”

“I don’t understand. You quit your job and now your leaving?”

“You ‘eard me. I’m fuck’n tired of picking up your shit.”

“Pick up my shit?! What are you talking about? You don’t clean up after me. I do.” John shook his head. “And that still doesn’t explain why you quit your job!”

“I’m leaving.” Harry swayed dangerously sideways and John caught her.

“Okay, what happened? Why are you leaving?” John asked trying to remain calm. He needed to remain claim if he was going to have to deal with his drunk sister. Getting angry and shouting would just make it worse.

“He was bastar’,” she mumbled.

John struggled to think who ‘he’ could be.

“Who, your boss?”

“Yeah. Always trying to grab’m my arse. Don’t ‘e know I’m gay? Well, I told him off. Right there in front of God and ever’body. Customers and employees gobbing. You should’a seen ’is face.” Harry giggled.

“So to celebrate getting fired, you went out and got drunk?” John asked. His anger slipping through.

“I quit! I didn’t get fired!”

“And you are going to leave? Where are you going to go?”

“Away from ‘ere! I’ve been working tak’n care of you and me for too fuck’n long. I’m done!” Harry frowned and pushed John away.

“I’m in school. We agreed. And once I’m in the army, I’ll be sending my pay packets back to you.” John started to shout. They had agreed. They had planned.

“You think so fuck’n high of yourself. Going to school. Going to be a doctor. You think you’ll going take care of me? Fuck you.” Harry turned and grabbed the box off the counter. “I got friends up north. I’m going to start over there. And don’t you come crawling back to me. Don’t you come knocking on my door when you fall flat on your fuck’n face.”

“Harry, please. Don’t leave like this. At least wait until you are sober.” John said.

“I’m not that drunk. Just ‘ad a little pick-me-up. Needed one to be around you.”

She took two steps forward and tripped. She fell to the floor. The contents of the box scattered across the floor as the dishes broke. Harry hit her head on the floor with a loud thud.

“Coow,” she hissed and tried to sit up.

John knelt down beside her. “Come on, Harry. Let’s get you to bed.”

This had become too familiar for John. Harry had been drinking more and more lately. He gently picked her up and guided her to the only bedroom in the small flat. He set her down on her bed and checked her over. She would have a bruise but he didn’t think she gave herself a concussion. He helped her to lay down. Turning off the light he closed the door.

He took a deep breath and leaned his back against the door. John didn’t need this to happen. He needed Harry to keep working so they could have a place to live. John didn’t make enough money at his job to keep the flat. If he got a full-time job, he would have less time to study for school. If his grades dropped then he might have to quit rugby, but if he quit rugby, then he would lose his scholarship. It seemed his life was cascading out of control.

He glared at the broken dishes and scattered bottles of shampoo. He needed to clean that up before he even tried to start studying. _What was his sister thinking?_ John wondered. They had a plan. They agreed. John needed to stay in school and he needed to join the army. It was their path out of one bedroom flat and their crappy lives.

~221~

The flat’s only one bedroom and one bed was Harry’s. John slept on the couch. He was sleeping there when he was woken up. For a moment he didn’t understand what had woken him. He laid there in the dark wondering. Then he heard the sound of a mobile phone ringing. It was the phone Sherlock had given him. He sat up and quickly reached for the blue jeans he had been wearing. The phone was still in the front pocket.

“Hello?” John answered.

“Is this John Watson?”

The voice was unfamiliar. It was older and more authoritative. John’s heart began to beat harder.

“Yes,” John answered meekly.

“This is PC Greg Lestrade. Do you know an individual named Sherlock Holmes?”

John quickly sat up. His stomach twisting. “Yes, what’s wrong?”

“He’s been in an accident. He’s going to be okay, but you will need to come down to St. Bart’s A and E. He can’t be discharged unaccompanied.” The man on the phone said.

“Yes, absolutely. I’m on my way.”

The call disconnected and John glanced at the clock. It was two in the morning. He looked and saw his sister’s bedroom door was still closed. Her suitcase sat by the front door. For a brief moment he wondered if he should wake her and tell her where he was going. Would she be sober enough to understand what he was telling her? Would she try and leave again? After several minutes of arguing with himself, John decided she needed to sleep. Besides, he needed to get to Sherlock as soon as possible.

John caught the tube and made his way to hospital. At two thirty in the morning on a Saturday, the A and E department was still busy. There were patients crying and moaning. The people sitting in the waiting room appeared frightened and numb. The staff looked haggard with dark circles under their eyes.

John walked right up to the nurses’ station and leaned over, trying to get the clerks attention.

“Excuse me.” He said. The clerk was busy marking a file. “Excuse me, I’m looking for a patient, Sherlock Holmes.”

The clerk ignored John. John turned another person behind the desk. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. I was told he was here.”

“Are you John Watson?” John heard a voice behind him.

He turned as saw a PC standing near a curtained off area. The PC looked to be in his thirties. His hair was brown but silvery grey streaks were already apparent. The police officer had soft brown eyes that were warm and one would find comfort in them.

“Lestrade?” John asked.

“Yeah, he’s in here.” John stepped closer but the PC held out his hand and stopped John. “I need to ask you a few questions first."

“Oh, okay.”

“How are you acquainted with Sherlock Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

John licked his lips and tried to relax. “We are students together at UCL. He’s been tutoring me in Chemistry.”

Lestrade seemed confused by the answer. “For how long?”

“Not long, a week.”

“A week?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Your phone number is in his phone twice. Once under your name and the other under I.C.E.”

John blinked. I.C.E. _“In case of emergency”_. John was Sherlock’s choice for an emergency contact.

“I don’t understand. He should have put down his mother, or father or even boyfriend.”

“Does Sherlock have a boyfriend?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” John regretted telling the PC. “Victor Trevor. I think he works at some bank in the City.”

Lestrade nodded his head and frowned. “Mister Trevor won’t be picking Sherlock up tonight.”

“Why, what happened?” John asked. A heavy weight pressed down on John’s chest. This all seemed so familiar to him.

“Apparently, Holmes and Trevor were having a ‘domestic.’ Things got out of hand and Holmes ended up here and Trevor is in jail tonight.

“Jail, good. Keep him there.” John snapped. Lestrade stared at John.

“Are you saying this isn’t an uncommon situation between the two of them?”

“I’ve noticed bruises on Sherlock. I’ve tried to tell him to leave Victor.” John said.

“You’ve known the man just over a week and you are giving him advice about him and his boyfriend?” Lestrade asked.

“An abusive situation is an abusive situation regardless how long you know about it. You need to help and stop it. Not worry about embarrassing yourself. Stand up and say something.”

Lestrade studied John for a few more moments. “I wish more people felt like you, Mister Watson. I’d have fewer calls like this one. He is waiting for you.”

“Wait, what about the other contacts in his phone. Family, friends? Why didn’t you try them?”

“There were no other contacts in his phone.”

“What?”

“There were several restaurants that delivered food, the number for the Met and a number that is assigned to MI5; but I can’t seem to figure out who that belongs too. Your number and Trevor’s number were the only people listed as contacts in Holmes phone.” Lestrade explained.

John knitted his eyebrows. That didn’t seem right, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He pulled the curtain back and saw Sherlock laying in the bed. He was sleeping. His expression was relaxed but John decide that had to because of medication.

The left side of Sherlock’s face was mottled with black and blue bruises. Dry blood clung to his thin lips. A ring of bruises circled Sherlock’s neck. Evidently at one-point Victor tried to strangle him. Sherlock’s breathing was shallow. John assessed cracked or broken ribs. And Sherlock’s left arm was wrapped in a compression bandage, probable broken forearm or wrist.

John stared at the man sleeping in the bed and wondered what other bruises were hidden under the hospital gown. What other atrocities had Victor done to the young man?

John stepped closer to the bed and lightly touched the back of Sherlock’s hand. His fingertip smoothing over a large bruise.

Sherlock woke with a start. A quick intake of air that he held, then slowly released as the pain registered. His silver blue eyes glanced warily over at the man beside the bed and when he recognized John, his body relaxed and settled into the bed.

“John,” he croaked.

“Don’t speak. It’s alright. I’m here. They will discharge you and I will take you home.” John said as he reflexively brought his hand up and dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and frightened at the mention of home. Before he could speak, John realized what he had said and clarified himself.

“My home. Or if you want, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but not around Trevor. Never around Trevor.”

“He was so angry.” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve never seen him that angry before. I thought he was going to . . .” His voice broke and a tear escaped the corner of his eye.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. It’s over. You never have to see him again.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “I’ll need to know where the two of you are going. Tomorrow an officer will come by and take a full statement and then we can file formal charges against Trevor.”

“NO!” gasped Sherlock. He tried to sit up but the pain in his ribs made him wince and suck in a breath of air to hold it. He collapsed back into the bed. “No, I won’t . . .”

“Sherlock, please. He could have killed you tonight. How much more are you going to take? Why would you keep defending this monster?” John asked. But John knew how much someone would take from the person they loved. He knew from experience.

“He didn’t mean it. It was an accident.” Sherlock whispered as he slowly let out his breath.

“This wasn’t an accident. This was prolonged. He had to have hit over and over again. He won’t stop next time until you are dead.” John said. He fought to keep from grabbing Sherlock and shaking him to make him understand.

“No. I won’t file a complaint.” Sherlock closed his eyes.

John glanced at Lestrade who waved him away from the bed. The two men moved back outside the curtained off area.

“This is common.” Lestrade said. “Maybe in a day or so, if you work on him, he will finally come to his senses and file a complaint. Then we can arrest Trevor.”

“Why is Trevor in jail tonight if Sherlock didn’t cooperate?” John asked.

“We are holding him on suspicion right now. We need a formal complaint to arrest him.” Lestrade said.

John nodded his head and gave the PC his address. He would take Sherlock to his flat then figure out what to do after that. John went back in and sat down next to the bed. Sherlock was asleep and he would probably stay there for another couple of hours while the administrative wheels slowly turned to get the young man released from A and E.

~221~

It was just after six, when John and Sherlock arrived at John’s flat. Sherlock came in and glanced around the small front room.

“Yeah, I know it’s not much to look at but it’s home.” John said. Then he noticed Harry’s suitcase was missing.

He looked and her bedroom door was open. John quickly went down the hall and looked inside. The room was empty. He checked the wardrobe. All of her clothes were gone. She left the flat while he was taking care of Sherlock.

John bowed his head and hid his eyes behind his hand. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. His future just walked out the door with his sister. Everything he had worked for – struggled for disappeared. What was he going to do now? He would have to drop out of school. He would have to give up his chance at becoming a doctor because his drunk sister. Because of the legacy of his abusive father.

And he still needed to take care of Sherlock. Someone who was practically a stranger. He struggled to regain control. Sherlock needed him. He needed to be strong – for both of them.

He went back out to the younger man. Sherlock was still standing in the middle of room, staring off to the middle distance. Shaking.

“You need to lay down before you fall down.” John said trying to sound light and unburdened.

“I’ll lay down on the couch.” Sherlock said glancing over at the lumpy thing.

“No, that’s my bed. Yours is in here.” He waved down the hallway and Sherlock’s eyes followed his gesture. Sherlock walked into the bedroom and glanced around.

“Your sister’s?” Sherlock asked.

“Ah, yeah. She’s gone though. Moved out.”

“Recently.”

“Yes. Very recently. Lay down and get some rest. I’ll be in the other room if you need anything.”

“What would I need?” Sherlock asked as he looked suspiciously at the rumbled bed.

“Nothing,” John said as he walked out of the room. “Nothing at all.”

If only that was true for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-7233.  
> Don't be embarrassed to say anything. It is not your fault.


	5. When You Say That He’s the One That You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the chapter everyone has been waiting for.

When You Say That He’s the One That You Want

John woke with a start. Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t identify it. The whole situation made worse by the fact he was only dressed in his pants and vest. He felt exposed. John laid on the couch waiting for his senses to tell him why had woken up so suddenly. He listened but didn’t hear anything unusual. Slowly he rolled over and glanced around. Nothing looked different from the previous night when he fell asleep. He rolled the rest of the way over and saw what had apparently woken him up.

Sherlock . . . sitting in the chair near his head . . . sitting in the chair wearing nothing but a sheet.

Sherlock was reading one of John’s infectious diseases book. He seemed mesmerized by the photographs of rare tropical parasitic infections.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked still laying on the couch. A sudden surge of lust pumped through him.

“I would think it would be very evident what I was doing, John.”

John blinked his eyes and sighed. He was trying to derailed where his thoughts were going. Seeing Sherlock sitting in nothing but a sheet only a few feet away from him. John’s mind immediately wandered back to his dream. _He and Sherlock in the shower together._ John opened his eyes to see his imagination slip into reality. Sherlock’s pale shoulders visible and just as inviting. His dark curls messed from sleep. His long limbs only just concealed by the thin cotton sheet.

John’s mouth dried and he quickly licked his lips. He needed to stop this immediately.

“I meant to ask, why are you reading that textbook? You should be resting in the other room.”

John rolled his body and sat up. His back ached from sleeping on the sofa. He wished he could sleep in the bed, then the thought of Sherlock sleeping there crashed into him. He could feel himself quickly in need of some relief.

“You don’t have much in the way of reading material around here and I my phone needs to be recharged. You don’t have the proper charging cables.” Sherlock said as he turned the page. “Have you ever seen a case of schistosomiasis?”

“What? Wait, you went through my stuff?!”

“Bored. Have you ever seen a case of schistosomiasis?” Sherlock repeated.

“Have I ever seen what?” John’s head was beginning to hurt.

“Schistosomiasis? Caused by the Nile River parasite Schistosoma,” Sherlock said without looking up.

“Well, since this in not Egypt and this is the twenty-first century, no,” John said as he carefully stood up, making sure he was twisted so that his morning erection was not visible to Sherlock.

“The date is irrelevant. People who bath in the Nile River today still become infected.” Sherlock said as he turned the page.

“Okay. But it is still not Egypt and I don’t think someone who is sick enough to be seen in hospital for a parasitic infection would be allowed to board an airplane to get here in the first place.” John said as he walked down the hall, trying as hard as he could to walk normally.

“Shame, it looks very interesting. I would like to know if the parasite could be used to identify an individual,” Sherlock said.

John closed the door of the bathroom before he could be pulled into a conversation about using parasites to track and identify people. He needed to take a quick shower, making sure his problem was dealt with. He tried using memories of Jeanette and his other girlfriends to speed up the process, but nothing worked. He finally allowed the memory of Alfie walking away from him in the shower to stimulate him. John could hear the man whispering in his ear. The deep sultry voice. Then, in his imagination the voice was replaced by a deeper, more rumbling voice. A pale face with dark hair. A gasped whispered, _John._

John’s hand sped up. His seed washing off the tile walls and down the drain. John leaned forward, resting his head on his bent elbow, pressed to the wall. He was in trouble. He knew he was in trouble. His life was imploding with Harry leaving, his future as a doctor was disappearing, and all he could do was fantasies about the man sitting in his front room. _A naked man, sitting in a sheet, in his front room_.

John was screwed.

He dried off and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked so tired. And old. Who was he kidding? John had seen the type of men Sherlock went for. Tall, rich and gorgeous. All things he was not. Besides, none of that matter now because Harry was gone. John was going to have to find a job if he wanted a place to live. Never mind about school and the army. That was more than likely over with. It really didn’t matter that John didn’t have a chance with Sherlock. His chances at anything other than a dismal life at this point were zero.

He dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed.

“Enough pity, Watson. Get on with it,” he said to his reflection.

John twisted to grab his clothes, then realized his mistake. He had walked in here in just his vest and pants. He forgot to bring any clean clothes in with him. They were sitting a duffle bag next to the couch. Next to Sherlock.

John closed his eyes, wondering if it was possible for him to slide down the shower drain and disappear. It wasn’t he was embarrassed to be naked around another man. That disappeared years ago from being in the locker room. The embarrassment came from the man he was now going to be naked in front of was Sherlock. Someone he obviously was interested in and shouldn’t be. He wrapped the towel tightly around his waist and took a steadying breath before stepping out of the bathroom.

He took two steps when he heard the new voice.

“This has to end, Sherlock. You must see that.”

“All I see is you butting in where you are not wanted.” Sherlock’s voice was brittle like ice.

John stepped into the front room not knowing who the new person was. He was afraid it was Victor or one of Victor’s friends, there to convince Sherlock to return to the brute.

Standing on the far side of the room was a stranger, leaning on an expensive looking umbrella. He wore a grey three-piece suit and a pale blue tie. He was tall, maybe even taller than Sherlock. His hair was auburn and thinning. There was a superiority attitude about him and he was glaring at Sherlock.

“It only because I care.” The stranger said as John stepped in the room. “Oh, good morning Mister Watson.”

The man’s eyes scanned up and down John bare chest and exposed legs. Even though John had a towel wrapped protectively around his waist, he felt completely naked under that man’s scrutiny.

“Yeah, good morning. Who are you?”

“A friend,” He said.

“My archenemy,” Sherlock bemoaned.

Sherlock still had the sheet wrapped around his body, as he sat with his legs crossed and defiantly refused to look at the intruder.

“Sorry?” John asked glancing back at Sherlock. “No one has archenemies now a days. Who is he?”

“Maybe this conversation would be more comfortable for everyone if you would like to put some clothes on, John.” The stranger said.

“We are quite comfortable the way we are, Mycroft.” Sherlock sneered.

John certainly wasn’t comfortable and wanted to get something on just for the sake of emotion protection.

The stranger, Mycroft, rocked impatiently on his toes. “Honestly, Sherlock, what would our parents say?”

“Well, since they are both dead, not much. But if they were alive, they would agree with me, that you are annoying. Now go start a war somewhere. I won’t be going out today, so I won’t need to worry about the chaos you might cause.”

“Wait? War?” John stared at Mycroft. “You’re the MI5 number.”

Mycroft seemed surprised by John’s comment. A snide expression came over his face. He addressed Sherlock while he stared intimidatingly at John.

“Oh, you do have a smart little pet this time.”

“I am not a pet.” John growled. His brows wrinkled as his expression hardened. His hands flexed into fists. He didn’t know exactly who this person was, but he was getting angry just looking at him.

“I must admit, he is significantly better than your last dalliance but anything would be.”

“Victor is not a dalliance. He loves me,” Sherlock shouted.

“He tried to kill you last night, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned towards Sherlock. Seemingly dismissing John.

“It was my fault,” Sherlock said.

John turned too. “So you ran repeatedly into his fist, Sherlock? You purposely broke your wrist? You throttled yourself?”

Sherlock frowned and turned his head away, hiding his face from the other men. At the mention of wrist, Sherlock pulled the injured arm under the sheet.

“He loves me,” Sherlock said in a half voice.

“That is not love, Sherlock,” John said. “That is not how someone who loves you treats you.”

“See where sentiment has gotten, brother.” Mycroft gloated. “Another visit to hospital. Cracked ribs. Broken bones. Bruised face. It is a good thing our parents are dead. They would be terrified to see you right now. When will you learn that sentiment is a flaw? A weakness?”

John twisted back to Mycroft. “Obviously you are his brother, and I guess you care, but you are not helping. Get out.”

“I will as soon as Sherlock agrees to leave this . . .” Mycroft paused when he noticed John glaring at him. “Flat and come home with me.”

“I’m never going anywhere with you, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“It what is best for you. You obviously can’t take care of yourself and your choice of – acquaintances is questionable.” Mycroft gave John another up and down assessment.

John simply wanted to punch the man in the face.

“I agree.” The voice came from behind John.

He twisted to see Victor Trevor standing in the open doorway of John’s flat.

“What are you doing here? The police said you were jail.” John wondered how much worse the day could get.

“A silly misunderstanding dealt with. Stupid exaggeration on the part of the police,” Victor said as he walked further into the flat.

Sherlock seemed to shrink into the chair. John stepped closer to Sherlock, in an attempt to shield him somehow. Victor took a moment to study the two men. Sherlock was sitting in the chair wrapped in the simple cotton sheet. His shoulders were bare as well as he legs. It appeared he was completely naked underneath the sheet. John stood beside the chair with a towel wrapped low on his hips. He was just as naked at Sherlock and comfortable to be naked around Sherlock. Anger flamed in Victor’s eyes as he stared at the two.

“I’ve come to take my darling home,” Victor said in a cold calculating voice. He held out his hand. “Come along. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

“No,” John growled.

“I will have to agree with John. Victor, you are not wanted here. Leave and quickly before it becomes uncomfortable for you.”

Victor laughed. “It became uncomfortable last night having to sleep in jail after that ridiculous misunderstanding. Sherlock should have told the stupid PC the truth. It was his fault. He fell.”

“I saw the medical report. I have decided it is time that I intervene.” Mycroft said.

Victor turned and marched over to Mycroft. “He’s a child. He makes stupid decisions. You’ve said so yourself.”

Mycroft just glared at Victor.

“He needs correction. Is it my fault that you and your family failed him? To make him respectful and compliant.”

Mycroft took a threatening step forward.

“Don’t embarrass yourself, Mycroft. We all know that you don’t do anything yourself. Never dirty your hands. You have people do things for you. And your people can’t get to me.” Then Victor turned towards John. “And Watson is hardly any threat.”

John took three steps forward, increasing his speed with each step. He pulled his left arm back and cocked it. His momentum propelled his fist into Victor’s face. All of John’s anger, all of his frustrations were placed in that punch. There was satisfying sound of breaking bones as John’s knuckles connected with Victor’s nose. The man shouted in pain and fell backwards. He crashed to the floor.

“You hit me! YOU HIT ME!” Victor shouted as he pushed himself back. Crawling across the floor.

John took another step forward. His hands clenched. His shoulders rounded for attack.

“Don’t hurt me!” Victor cowered. John took another step forward and Victor pulled himself into a tight ball. “Don’t . . . please, don’t hit me again!”

Sherlock sat in his chair and watched as Victor became a pitiful, whinny victim. He remembered saying the exact same thing the night before. He remembered begging Victor to stop. To stop hitting him. To stop causing him pain. Begging for mercy from the person who supposedly loved him.

John didn’t take another punch. The first one felt good, but John knew it was mistake.

“Get out!” John ordered. “Get out of my home and never come back!”

Victor stood up slowly. His hand clutching at his broken nose. Blood streaking down his suit and staining his white shirt.

“Sherlock . . .” he held out his hand but Sherlock remained sitting. “I said come here.” Victor tried to sound authoritative, but his words were masked by his hand and his fear of John.

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

John turned and looked at the man. He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, then turned back to Victor.

“Get out before I call the cops and have you arrested. Get out!”

“You wouldn’t.” Victor said halfway between a demand and a plea.

“He might not, but I will surely have you arrested on charges you will never be able to defend yourself against. Even if I have to invent them.” Mycroft said.

Victor took one final glance between the three men and then fled the room. His hand still pressed to his bleeding nose.

At the sound of the slamming door, John turned towards Mycroft.

“You should leave too, because that threat won’t work on me, you know.” John said.

Mycroft looked at John, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Why not? You don’t think I could make sure something is found on your laptop that will put you into Belmarsh Prison for the rest of your life.”

“First off, I don’t own a laptop. Second off, well, being in prison would mean I would have a roof over my head and three squares a day. That’s better than what I’ve got now. I heard they have a hell of a rugby team there, too.” John smiled.

Mycroft stared at John again. He was reassessing the young man. He didn’t understand how gallant John was about the threat. He wasn’t used to people like John standing up to him.

“Leave, Mycroft,” Sherlock said as he stood up. He winced as he stepped closer to his brother. “We don’t want you here.”

“We? Is that the ‘royal we’ or are you now including John?” Mycroft asked.

John glanced at Sherlock for a moment then smiled again. “We,” he said.

Mycroft looked at the two men then nodded his head. “We are not done, Sherlock. I will be in contact. Do you wish me to make arrangements for your belongs to be retrieved from Trevor’s flat?”

“Yes, do make yourself useful and send one of your trained assassins over there to pack up my dirty laundry,” Sherlock said as he started to lean into John.

John wrapped an arm around the younger man waist and noticed Sherlock was shaking.

“You should have stayed in bed, Sherlock. Goodbye, Mycroft. I’m sure you can show yourself out.” John said as he carefully turned Sherlock and helped him back to the bedroom.

Mycroft stood watching the two for several seconds then pulled out his mobile. He pressed a button and placed the phone to his ear.

“Yes, dear. It is time we increase the security on my brother. I think level two.” He paused. “And his new associate, John Watson.” There was another pause. “Yes. This will only be temporary.”

Mycroft disconnected the call. He glanced up to see John and Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom. He knew this was a better situation than Trevor, but he was certain it wasn’t the best for Sherlock. He knew he would be called back here again to fix this problem too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments welcomed and enjoyed.


	6. And You’re Spending All Your Time in this Wrong Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John come to an understanding and Sherlock solves his first case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best dialogue belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. The greatest fan fiction writers.

And You’re Spending All Your Time in this Wrong Situation

The morning after Harry had left, John went to the cabinet where they kept the jar for their rent money. It was empty. John could feel his stomach twist. Apparently, Harry had used the money for one last splurge before she abandoned him. It would have been bad enough that John had no money to pay for this month’s rent, but the bigger problem was they hadn’t been able to pay last month’s rent either. John was now two months in the rears and he wondered how long it would take his landlord to toss him out on his arse. Toss both him and Sherlock out.

John spent the next three days ducking the landlord. He left the flat before five-thirty in the morning and waiting to come home after the time he knew his landlord usually went to bed. He scraped together what little money he had left and bought food for Sherlock, but the young man didn’t seem to want to eat anything John brought. Sherlock seemed to live on John’s tea and air.

After a week, John found a job at a local bar. He spent his evenings there. When he wasn’t in class or on the practice field, John was tending bar wondering when he and Sherlock would be homeless.

A week and a half after John had brought Sherlock home to his flat he came home at half three in the morning. He just wanted to collapse on the couch and sleep. He was exhausted. The worry over money and school was taking a toll on John. He was losing weight and having a difficult time keeping up with his teammates. He just wanted to sleep. He opened the door and nearly tripped over the boxes stacked there. Suddenly, John felt sick. He thought the fates were kicking him in the teeth again. John thought his landlord had beaten him to the punch and was having his things packed up to be set on the kerb.

He quietly came into the flat not to wake Sherlock, but it was unnecessary. The other young man was awake and reading in a chair that John didn’t recognized. Even dressed as sloppy as he was, Sherlock was still gorgeous. The younger man was wearing worn flannel sleeping pants and he sat with his long legs stretched out in front of him. His shirt was a ratty old t-shirt with several visible holes at the neckline and seams. He also wore a dark blue dressing gown spread out around him like some ‘superhero’s’ cape.

“Sherlock? What are you doing up? You need your rest if you’re going to heal.” John said as he looked at the leather and chrome chair Sherlock was sitting in. “Is that new?”

“Mycroft’s pet assassins finally brought my things over from Victor’s. It was my favorite chair.”

“Oh, okay, but you still need to go to bed.”

“I’m fine. I don’t sleep much anyway.” Sherlock’s eyes were busy sweeping over the pages of the book.

“What are you reading?”

“The Case Studies of Bernard Henry Spilsbury.” Sherlock turned the page and continued reading.

“Spilsbury? Not the normal bedtime reading material.” John knew the name of the famous doctor. Bernard Spilsbury had been the forensic pathologist for some of England’s most infamous crimes.

“His deductive reasoning and observational skills are awe-inspiring,” Sherlock said.

“His hubris was inexcusable,” John said coolly.

Sherlock looked up. His eyes appeared cold and calculating but John could also see a fire burning brightly there too. “He knew what he was talking about. He knew how to read the evidence.”

“If there is one thing I’ve learned about being a doctor, is that as soon as you start believing you are infallible, you will kill someone.”

Sherlock studied John’s expression for another heartbeat, then nodded his head. “I admit that in a limited perspective, you might be correct.”

John gave a half-hearted laugh. “Is that your way of saying I’m right?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”

John sighed and looked around the room again. There were at least a dozen boxes.

“Are all these yours?” He waved his hand towards the boxes.

“Yes, they were delivered today.”

John felt sick. “Look, Sherlock. I’m sorry but we may not be able to stay here much longer.”

“The landlord came by yesterday.”

John knew he was going to sick. He sat down on the couch and leaned forward. With his elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. He couldn’t admit that he had no money for rent to Sherlock. He was supposed to taking care of Sherlock. He had promised Sherlock he would look after the man.

“Yeah, about that, I’m sorry . . .”

“The rent’s been paid.” Sherlock returned to reading his book.

“What?” John looked up.

“Last month, this month and next month. If you want to quit that job you just got you can.” Sherlock turned the page of the book, then pulled it closer to his face to study the black and white photo.

“What!” John couldn’t believe what he just heard.

“Do you like the violin?”

The non sequitur threw John completely.

“I . . . the violin?”

“Yes, I play it when I’m thinking and I don’t talk for days. Victor appreciated that but hated the violin. I think roommates should know the worse about each other before they move in together. Are you attached to that couch?” Sherlock rattled off quickly.

“Stop – roommates?” John sat up.

“I need a place to live. You need someone to pay half the rent. I can pay for the flat. And you can continue with your studies without hindrance. It seems to me to be a perfect arrangement.” Sherlock closed the book and finally set all of his attention on John.

“But we don’t know each other,” John offered. He knew he needed the help but could he accept money from Sherlock?

“You didn’t know me when you came to hospital and told that PC that you would take care of me.”

“Yeah, but . . . Do you really want to live here?” John waved his hand around the dingy flat.

“The flat is fine.”

“But you probably come from money. Why would you want to live here? With me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes then said, “You’re a student studying to be a doctor. You are strapped for funds. Your alcoholic sister has left and you are in need of a flat mate. I am getting out of a . . .” Sherlock paused for a moment to formulate what he was going to say next. “I’m getting out of a ‘difficult’ relationship. I refuse to live with my brother and I cannot be trusted to live by myself. I’m in need of a flat and a flatmate. Together, we solve each other’s problems.”

“I can pay my own way,” John said firmly, although he knew it was a lie.

“In London? This is not charity, John. I expect you to pay your share of living expenses. But this seems to be the most reasonable answer to our predicament as it stands now,” Sherlock said.

It all sounded so sensible to John. So logical.

“What about the couch?” John asked remembering Sherlock’s comment.

“I find that couch uncomfortable. It’s too short for my frame. I want to get a sleeper sofa.”

“But I sleep on the couch,” John said.

“You should sleep in the bed. It was your flat first. Besides, I rarely sleep anyway.”

“You will sleep in the bed. You need the rest to heal. It is important.” John insisted.

Sherlock glanced away from John and back to his book. “We could share the bed,” he suggested softly.

John stared at Sherlock for several seconds until his mouth caught up to his racing brain.

“I . . . I . . . No, I’ll be fine here. Out here.”

The image of Sherlock sitting in the chair in the sheet came unbidden. John knew he needed to sleep alone.

“John, I was only saying that you would be more comfortable in there and I would rarely be there to sleep.”

John wasn’t sure if that was better or not. The idea of being invited into the man’s bed only to sleep alone seemed even more depressing than never being offered the opportunity to begin with.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine here.”

“So you are attached to that couch?”

“The couch? No, I hate it.” John said as he quickly stood up.

“Then I’ll order a sleeper sofa and you will be more comfortable.” Sherlock said. He opened the book and started to read again.

“No, Sherlock. You’ve already done too much. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock closed the book again and looked at John.

“I think it is safe to say that I’m the one indebted to you, John. You may have saved my life. I don’t know why but seeing Victor on the floor after you punched him was like the lights coming on.”

“It was? I don’t understand.” John said as he watched Sherlock.

“I thought he was – invincible. That he was more than mere human, and I was lucky because he said he loved me. ME!” Sherlock said. Then he turned his face away from John. “My parents died when I was very young. I never really had any friends when I was a child. I was so – different and my classmates never let me forget it. They made fun of me. When I was sent off to public school – it became worse. I felt isolated. But Victor paid attention to me. He called me smart. In the beginning it was good. Very good. Until it wasn’t. And then you showed me he wasn’t invincible. He was scared of you. And I didn’t need to be scared of him any longer.”

John nodded his head. “You still don’t owe me anything, Sherlock. You don’t need to buy me anything or give me anything. I’m your friend and I will always help you.”

Then John saw something he had never seen before. An open and honest smile on the younger man’s face. It crinkled around Sherlock’s eyes and warmed his expression. It made John’s heart skip slightly.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispered. Then he opened his book and continued to read. “Tomorrow night, if you are not working, I would like to go back to the morgue.”

John retuned the smile. “I think I have the night off. Let’s go.”

The following day, a sleeper sofa was delivered.

~221~

John thought his immediate problems had been fixed. But concerns about paying the rent paled in comparison to the difficulties of living with Sherlock.

John had never lived alone. He had lived with his sister ever since they fled their home and their abusive father. Over the years, the siblings had developed boundaries. But with Sherlock those boundaries were non-existent. Sherlock had no concept of privacy. He would borrow anything that was John’s. Clothes, books, anything. Often to experimented on.

Sherlock didn’t believe in sharing the housekeeping chores. John was forever cleaning up behind Sherlock. And Sherlock never went to the shops. The only food in the flat was what John brought in and cooked himself.

Then there was the other problem. John was not a prude. He had been naked around other boys before. Locker rooms took away his nervousness. But something about Sherlock made it uncomfortable for John to be seen in his skivvies. On the other hand, John fought to not stare whenever Sherlock, seeming to lack any kind of inhibition, wandered around the flat in his bedsheet.

Then there was Jeanette.

~221~

Jeanette stifled her scream as she stomped her foot hard on the floor.

“You egotistical snob!” she shouted at Sherlock. “John, why is he here!?”

John rushed forward and wrapped his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. “He’s my flatmate. I told you.”

“Well, I think he needs to leave,” she demanded.

“Why? Because I told you that you are boring?” asked Sherlock as he flopped down in his chair.

John scowled at him. “Please Sherlock. Apologize.” Then he turned to Jeanette. “He didn’t mean it. He says things like that to everyone. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yes it does.” Sherlock piped up. “It means she is vacuous and insipid. I had more in-depth conversations with my skull.”

“Your what?” John asked.

“My skull.” Sherlock reached down beside the chair and pulled a human skull out of a box.

“Is that really!?” Jeanette paled.

“Of course it’s really. A friend of mine – well when I say a friend . . .” Sherlock smiled.

“AHHH!” She shook her hands in the air. “Either he goes or I go!”

“Goodbye.” Sherlock smirked.

“SHERLOCK!” John shouted.

“John, make up your mind!” Jeanette cried.

“Let’s go to your place,” offered John.

Jeanette grabbed her handbag and slung the strap over her head violently. “Oh, I’ll go – alone! John you really are a great boyfriend.”

“What?” John was confused.

“Sherlock is very lucky!”

Jeanette stomped out of the room, slamming the door to the flat closed.

John spun on Sherlock. “Was that really necessary!?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it, Sherlock. She my girlfriend.”

“She’s an idiot. You can do better than that for a sexual partner.” Sherlock seemed to be studying the skull.

“A girlfriend is more than just a sexual partner.” John protested.

“I sincerely hope you weren’t expecting an interesting and engaging conversation with her. She not capable of it.”

“NO, I mean yes! We do more than just have sex! She means more to me that just someone to get a leg over!”

“John, if she was as important to you as you claim, then why are you here with me discussing her instead of going after her. Subconsciously, you recognize I am correct in my deductions about her and you are secretly glad she is gone.” Sherlock looked up at John with a sincere expression on his face.

John realized what Sherlock had just said and then cursed himself. “Shit!”

He took off chasing after Jeanette. She made it to the Tube station before John could reach her. Apparently, she had waited on the pavement in front of his building for him. She was expecting him to come rushing after her and apologize. Beg her to return. But when that hadn’t happened, Jeanette was even more upset than before. The next day, John received a text from her telling him she never wanted to see him again.

After Jeanette, John tried dating other women. It seemed John would have one or two dates with a woman, before she either told him she was not interested in dating him, or simply refuse to return his calls. He wasn’t sure, but he thought Sherlock might have something to do with that.

~221~

Finally, there were the experiments. It happened gradually and John didn’t realize it until it was too late. There was the experiment with mold under the sink. Then the collection of native insects to London appeared on the kitchen table. The day John came home with dinner from local Indian restaurant, he found a dead rat in the refrigerator.

“There’s a dead rat in here!” John shouted.

“Just tea for me.” Sherlock said from his chair as he leaned back appearing to contemplate the ceiling.

“Why is there a dead rat in the refrigerator?” John glared at the man.

“Because Adams wouldn’t let me take a specimen from the morgue.”

“Adams? Dr. Adams? Of course you’re not allowed to take a specimen from the morgue.” John said as he grabbed an old dish towel and carefully wrapped the dead animal up in it and tossed it and the towel in the bin. He picked the bin up and started to head out of the flat when he turned to Sherlock. “Is that the reason I have to be with you in the morgue. To prevent you from stealing a body?”

“It was one time, and the person was indigent. No one was going to claim him.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Sherlock.” John scoffed and opened the door of the flat.

Standing just outside the door was PC Lestrade. His hand raised to knock on the now open door.

“Lestrade?” John greeted the man, surprised.

“Hey, Doctor Watson.” He said as he took a step into the flat. Cautiously glancing around the room.

John awkwardly hesitated with the bin still in his hands. He wasn’t sure what the police officer was doing there.

“Uhm, not a doctor yet.” John said as he placed the bin down outside the door of the flat. “What can I do for you?”

Lestrade had quickly scanned the room. Visually checking each corner and every item. His eyes fell briefly on Sherlock who still sitting in his leather and chrome chair, but Sherlock was sitting up now and paying attention to the officer.

“Well, you’re the closest person I know to a doctor I can question,” Lestrade said as he turned back to John.

“What is it?” John asked suspiciously. “Is it about Trevor?”

“He’s in custody again. Got too rough with a date. Charges are being filed this time.” Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock who appeared to remain indifferent. “It’s about something else. And I really shouldn’t bring it up to a civilian, but I don’t understand what it means.”

Sherlock made a huffing sound and John glared at the him as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s something I saw. A scene I came up on and I think – maybe - I don’t know,” Lestrade hummed.

“You think the detective in charge missed something very important,” Sherlock interrupted.

John twisted and gave Sherlock a look like, _‘Shut up, now is not the time to show off.’_

“Yeah, something like that.” Lestrade said.

“Here, sit down and tell us.” John waved a hand towards the couch.

Lestrade looked questioning at the obviously newest piece of furniture in the otherwise dilapidated flat.

“First off, call me Greg.”

“Okay, I’m John.”

Greg Lestrade nodded his head and glanced at Sherlock but the younger man remained quiet; intent on listening to whatever was going to said.

“I was patrolling my area near Blackfriars. St Andrew’s Hill. It was after eight in the evening and suddenly, this man comes running up to me. His neighbor is dead. He pulls me down the street and into a second story flat. There’s dead man on the floor like the neighbor said. Laying by the hob. Looks like he died while fixing dinner. There’s a pan on the stovetop with something that looks like a burnt steak and the place stinks of smoke. I mean, just looking at the scene, it looks like he had a heart attack or something while fixing dinner.”

“Older man? Overweight by chance?” John asked.

“He’s in his fifties but fit. Not overly muscular but you could tell he took care of himself.”

“Okay, why do you think something is off?” John asked.

“I don’t know exactly. I mean it could be nothing but . . . it seemed staged to me,” Greg said. “First off, the windows were open. It had been raining for about an hour before we found him, but his windows were open. Second off, he was frying a steak for dinner.”

“Okay, not the best way to cook it, but not unheard of,” John said.

“But that was all he had for dinner. No veg, no bread, nothing. He didn’t even have a beer or something to drink. He didn’t have any plates down to put it on. It looked like he just put the meat in the skillet and turned the hob on.”

“Did the body look odd?” Sherlock asked.

Greg looked back and forth between John and Sherlock. He slowly pulled his mobile out of pocket. “I wasn’t supposed to do this, but the detective seemed to leaping to ‘natural causes’ without waiting for the coroner’s inquest.”

He pushed a few buttons and pulled up a photo of the dead man. He handed the phone to John. Sherlock quickly stood up and rushed over, trying to grab the phone from John’s hands. John held onto it and glared.

“Give me a moment. I’m the doctor here.”

“Almost a doctor,” Sherlock correct. He looked over John’s shoulder at the picture.

The photograph showed a man in mid-fifties laying on a hardwood floor. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt with thin washed out burgundy lines running vertical down. His trousers were nondescript Kahiki and his shoes were simple brown leather. His knees were bent and legs were folded up underneath himself. As if he simply fell straight down where he was standing. His eyes were half open as was his mouth. A slight blue tingle colored his thick protruding lips. There was redness to the skin touching the floor, lividity. A pale grey film seemed to be covering his skin.

“Look at his skin, John,” Sherlock said over the man’s shoulder.

“Soot from the burnt food?”

“No, there’s none on his clothing. It is chemical film.” Sherlock looked back up at Lestrade. “You said the windows were open, did the room have a funny smell to it?”

“Like burnt meat?” Greg asked.

“No, something else. Something disgusting.”

“Well, now that you mention it, I smelled something like rotten eggs when I first went in there.” Greg remembers.

“Strong?” Sherlock asked.

“No, just barely there. Just a hint.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rushed over to the desk. He started rummaging through the papers and books crowded on top of it.

“Tell me about the victim.” He ordered.

Greg gave John a questioning look and John simply shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock started tossing papers out of his way. Greg pulled out a notebook and started reading the recorded information.

“He’s an immigrant, Yuri Liski. Fifty-four and widowed. He moved here from Ukraine eight years ago. Auto mechanic. No family. No criminal record.”

“I don’t know about that.” Sherlock smiled. He quickly came back over and handed Greg a picture of a man in a Russian Army officer’s uniform. “Meet General Yuri Litkin. The Butcher of Atyrau.”

“Who?” John asked.

“General Litkin was responsible for a raid on the city of Atyrau in Kazakhstan. He crossed international borders without permission to hunt down rebels. He let the terrorist slip though his fingers but murdered twenty-eight member of the Kazakhstan militaria. The Russians have been trying to keep the raid and the killings a secret from the general public, but I have my sources. He has been running from both the Kazakhstan military as well as the Vooruzhonnije Síly Rossíyskoj Federátsii.”

“Who?!” Greg asked.

“The Armed Forces of the Russian Federation. SVR.” Sherlock beamed.

“You’re joking!”

“Look at the photo. It’s the same man. Liski is Litkin.” Sherlock waved his hand at the photograph he had handed to Greg.

“Okay, what if Liski is this rogue general. Why is he dead?” John asked.

“He is a big embarrassment to the military. He has been hiding from them since he escaped Russia nine years ago. He has been living in hiding. Apparently, the Russians learned where he was and that he was living under the name of Liski. They couldn’t petition the government to extradite him back to Russia without admitting what he had done. So they sent in an assassin to kill him.”

“But how?!” Greg was getting frantic.

“Hydrogen sulfide.”

“Hydrogen what?” Greg asked.

“Hydrogen sulfide. Very poisonous, very fast. Less than five parts per million is lethal. You are lucky the windows were open when you walked into that flat, Lestrade. It was a deathtrap.”

Greg paled and John looked at the photograph of the general again. “But H2S is difficult to work with. How was he gassed?”

“The Wraith.” Sherlock smiled broadly. “I’ve only read about him. He is a deadly assassin who was been working for the FSB since they first were formed. Before that, he worked for the KGB.”

“Sherlock, that’s over thirty years ago. How old is this assassin?” John asked.

Sherlock rocked his head from side to side as he thought. “The first reported victim was in the 1973. So maybe late sixties, early seventies.”

“Sherlock, there is a seventy-year-old assassin running around London gassing rogue Russian generals?” John asked skeptically.

“It fits, John. It’s perfect. You don’t need a very large container of gas. Something as small as a five-liter canister would do. Pump the gas under the door of the flat. Litkin would be dead in seconds. Then wearing a respirator, nothing large, with just enough air for a few minutes, enter the flat. Open the windows and put the steak in the pan to burn on the stovetop. The smell of the burning meat would draw the attention of the neighbors. The deadly gas would dissipate out the open window and all that would be left is the slight odor of rotten eggs and a fine grey residue on the body.”

“The neighbor who told me he was dead was sixty-nine and an immigrant too.” Greg said nervously. “Are you saying that little old man could have been the killer?”

“It would have been the perfect way to deflect any suspension away from him. Why would he notify the police if he was responsible for Litkin’s death?” Sherlock said.

“I think I need to go back and interview that man some more. Any suggestion?” asked Greg.

“As you are speaking to him, switch from Liski to Litkin and see what he does. Maybe mention ‘Dignity and Honor.’” Sherlock recommended.

“What’s that?”

“A group of retired Russian intelligence officers who have turned into alleged assassins for hire.” Sherlock said.

Greg looked at Sherlock for several seconds then back to John. “You know this sounds insane?”

“Just slip it into the conversation. See what happens.”

Greg stood up, shaking his head. “I’m going to get into so much trouble if this blows up in my face.” 

“If it does, we’ll buy you a beer to cry over.” John offered.

“If it does, you’ll buy me several whiskeys because my career as a copper will be over.” Greg said as he left.

John turned back and looked at Sherlock. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, John.”

John wondered how many times he was going to hear that from the younger man.

~221~

Every news station broadcasted the report of the police constable arresting the assassin known as the ‘Wraith’ in London, England. Even the international news networks. Images of Greg Lestrade escorting the elderly man in handcuffs into the police station were flashed across the television screen.

“I was right! I was right!” Sherlock was dancing around the front room of their flat.

John was laughing and smiling while watching his roommate and listening to the report. The video switched to a reporter interviewing Greg Lestrade.

“Tell us, PC Lestrade, how did you know Mister Klokov was the ‘Wraith’?”

“I didn’t. I was interviewing Mister Klokov and there were inconsistencies in his explanation of discovering the body. The inconsistencies helped explain how the victim died and who would possibly be involved.”

John and Sherlock stopped their dancing and stared at each other.

“We were right, John! We were right!”

“It was you, Sherlock. You solved the case. You were brilliant.”

John suddenly thought nothing was more important that to celebrate. He pushed forward and pressed both hands on either side of Sherlock’s face. He pulled the younger man’s face down to his and kissed him. Solidly and soundly. For a stunning moment, the world quit spinning and fell into silence as the two men stood there and kissed each other. One intense and innocent kiss. Then it was done.

John pulled back still smiling broadly. Smiling until he noticed the expression of Sherlock’s face. Speechless. Sherlock rapidly blinked his eyes as he stared down at John.

John’s hands dropped as he pushed himself back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just got carried away. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H2S is extremely dangerous. Never mess with it.  
> Also, there really is a group of retired KGB officers who go by Dignity and Honor. Whether they are assassins depends on who you talk to. Thank you for the wonderful comments.


	7. Any Time You Want to Stop It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock handle the kiss differently.

Any Time You Want to Stop It

_John leaned back still smiling broadly. Smiling until he noticed the expression of Sherlock’s face. Speechless. Sherlock rapidly blinked his eyes as he stared down at John._

_John’s hands dropped as he pushed himself back further._

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just got carried away. I’m sorry,” John babbled._

_“I’m not.”_

_Sherlock saw the blush sweep across John’s cheeks. He hummed satisfactory and leaned forward for another kiss. John stumbled back further._

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t try and claim you’re not gay, John. We both know that’s not true.”_

_“How did . . . I’m not gay,” whispered John._

_“Dilated pupils, increased respiration and pulse rate. Dilation of the surface capillaries. John, you are blushing.”_

_Sherlock could hear John swallow dryly._

_“I’m . . . I need . . .” John rushed out of the flat._

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Sherlock chastised himself as he remembered the night before.

John had fled the flat and hadn’t return. John should be at class today. Sherlock wondered if he should go looking for him there. He needed to talk to John. He wanted to make sure that he hadn’t pushed too hard and scared the man away completely.

Sherlock was confused. He so rarely was ever confused that he needed to concentrate and think clearer. He fell back on old habits that he thought would help. Sherlock had slipped out of the flat and acquired a single vial of cocaine. As the drug flowed through his blood stream he thought his mind cleared and he could think better. 

He sat in his chair with his fingertips steeple under his chin. He remembered the sensation of John’s unexpected kiss. The firmness of John’s lips. How warm they were pressed to his. The scent of John skin; generic soap, hint of mint toothpaste and something so very specifically John Watson. Moments of the past month came rushing back to him.

John in the kitchen making the perfect cup of tea for him.

John biting his thumbnail as he worked out the chemical formulas as they studied together.

John complimenting Sherlock on his deductions instead of criticizing him.

John blushing every time he saw the younger man parading around the flat in a sheet.

John watching him with growing interest and appeal.

John standing next to him wearing only a towel.

John punching Victor.

They were framed pictures in Sherlock’s mind palace. He remembered them all and with every new thing he learned about John, the man became more of a mystery. He hated drunks but worked in a bar. John was strong and forceful, but willing to be submissive to Sherlock’s needs. He was obviously interested in Sherlock but unwilling to pursue that interest.

Sherlock found himself living with the biggest mystery he’d encountered yet. And the very thought, made Sherlock more desirous of the man. Now that he knew what it felt like to be kiss by John, he wanted to know more. He wanted to know how John’s skin felt under his fingers. How sensitive John would be if Sherlock kissed along his neck. Nipping at the soft skin under his ear. What sounds would John make as Sherlock licked at his collarbone, or dragged his fingernail over the other man’s nipple? Would John be willing to take Sherlock in his mouth? Or would he prefer to be on top? Pushing the young man into the mattress.

With each minute, more questions came to Sherlock and John wasn’t here to answer them.

“Sherlock!” The voice was sharp and demanding and Sherlock didn’t like it.

He blinked his eyes and realized Mycroft was sitting in the chair opposite him.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked glancing around the sitting room. He was looking for John, but the young man wasn’t there.

“I’ve been trying to carry on a conversation with you for five minutes,” Mycroft said indigently.

“Preposterous.”

“Hardly. Let me guess, you have been pinning for your little doctor.”

“Mycroft, what do you want? Tell me so I can refuse and you can scurry off to your hole.” Sherlock said as he twisted his face away from his brother. He knew if anyone could read his thoughts it would be Mycroft.

“It is quite obvious that you are obsessed with the man. Your ‘knight’ in hospital scrubs.”

“You are being tedious again. If you are not here to ask for something, then leave,” Sherlock said, trying to sound bored.

“I’m here to tell you that Victor was released from custody,” Mycroft said. His demeanor shifting from ridiculing to concern with a single alteration in where he was looking.

“What about the assault charges? He attacked his date.” He turned back and looked at his brother.

“Dropped. Insufficient evidence and since you refused to press charges, he is free.”

“I didn’t want to press charges. It would mean court dates and meetings with solicitors. I never wanted to see him again. I wanted him to just disappear.” Sherlock said rolling his shoulder trying to sound unaffected by the news Victor was free.

“If you had pressed charges, then he probably would have entered into the correctional system. But to disappear would require a more permanent solution. One I’m hoping you are not suggesting.” Mycroft watched his brother carefully. Something about Sherlock seemed off to him.

“As you enjoyed telling me for the entire time I was with Victor. He is not worth the time or effort.” Sherlock sneered and looked away again.

“Sherlock, you should have told me he was hurting you,” Mycroft said softly. “I would have done something. I would have made sure it stopped.”

“You would have reveled in the fact that I came to you for help. Never.”

“Sherlock, you are my brother. I would have . . .”

“It is irrelevant now. I have been freed from the spell that Victor had me under. Although, now that I look back on it, I’m still confused how I came to be enthralled.”

“Love, brother dear. It is messy and destructive. Something that should be avoided at all cost.” Mycroft said but was unable to look Sherlock in the eye as he said it.

“Well, fear not Mycroft. I am no longer in love with Victor. I will not allow him to harm me again.” Sherlock stated emphatically.

“Why? Because you have found a new champion? You need consider your choices. John won’t be here forever.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the side and considered his brother. “What are you going to do?”

“It is not me, Sherlock. It is John who has decided to leave.”

“John is in school. He is studying to be a doctor. He isn’t going anywhere.” Sherlock said.

“Your time with Victor has dulled your senses, Sherlock.” Mycroft mocked. “John had made arrangements to join the Army and finish his clinical rotations for his medical training in the military.”

Mycroft instantly saw the confusion on Sherlock’s face. He preened. “Didn’t you know? Didn’t your precious doctor tell you? Have you let your emotional attachment blind you again?” Mycroft glanced around the room. “He didn’t sleep in his usual spot last night. Maybe he found an accommodating companion for the evening. A female companion.”

“Get out, Mycroft. You have relayed the information about Victor. I’m sure he won’t be coming back around here again. And you don’t either.”

Mycroft finally got a good look at Sherlock’s face. The bloodshot eyes whose pupils were quite wide. He noticed the twitch in Sherlock’s muscles and the rapid thumping of Sherlock’s pulse.

“Are you felling alright brother? You’re not coming down sick are you?”

“Of course I’m not alright. How do you know about John and the Army? Are you just saying that to make me upset?” Sherlock ignored Mycroft’s question.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “I have never wished to upset you, brother dear. I only wish to inform. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t do a thorough background check on John? Especially after what happened with Victor.”

Sherlock looked confused for a moment. And Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I trusted you when you said Victor was an acceptable companion. We see how well you did there. Of course I am doing background checks. And John Watson has already signed the commitment papers. Once he finishes this semester, he will be leaving. You must prepare yourself.”

Sherlock looked away. _John couldn’t leave!_ He thought to himself. _He can’t!_

“The end of school year is a long way off.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Sherlock, you need to carefully consider what I am saying to you. John will be leaving. Regardless of how you feel about it. He will be leaving and you will need to be prepared to be alone again. Don’t make the mistake as last time and take up with the first individual who smiles at you after he leaves. You did that with Victor and it resulted in years of suffering. If I were you, I would discontinue any association with John Watson before you become too attached. Now is the time to break things off, before you have taken that final step. Before you become too emotionally involved.”

“Mycroft get out! I don’t want you here. I don’t need you here.” Sherlock shouted at his brother.

Mycroft tutted as he stood up. “Apparently, I’m too late in giving you my advice.”

Sherlock glared at his brother as Mycroft causally smoothed the wrinkles in his suit front and lightly tapped his umbrella tip on the floor. “It would be better for you to be the one who says goodbye first, Sherlock. Remember that.”

Then he left. Leaving Sherlock to wonder if it was true.

~221~

Mike saw John as soon as he walked into the small café near campus. John was sitting a table with a mug of coffee sitting in front of him. Mike went to the counter and looked over the selections. He ordered a turkey sandwich with crisps. Then he eyed the array of small cakes. His girlfriend, Sandy, had been on his case for several weeks now about his weight. He hesitated then decided he needed extra energy if he was going to have to deal with the “John and Sherlock’ drama. He ordered a seed cake to go with his lunch. The woman behind the counter gave Mike his coffee and told him it would be a moment. Mike went and sat down opposite John.

John looked up at his friend. John looked worse than he did the night before. Dark circles were under his eyes and his skin looked slightly sallow.

“You look like shit, man. How did you make it through class?” Mike asked.

“Just barely. Sorry about last night.” John said as he picked up his coffee and drank it.

“No problem, but you probably should apologize to Sandy. She didn’t know who was knocking on our door at midnight. She was afraid it was some kind of home invasion.”

“I’ll tell her I’m sorry when I see her again,” John said. He glanced up as the waitress brought Mike’s food over. She set down the plate with the sandwich and refreshed Mike’s coffee, ignoring John’s.

“Are you going order anything to eat?” she asked.

John’s attention slipped away from her and over to the counter and the chalkboard with the offerings of the day. The thought of anything listed made his stomach twist. He couldn’t face eating and he shook his head.

“Sorry, dodgy stomach.” He apologized to the woman.

She frowned and walked away, not refilling his near empty cup. John sighed as he looked down at the remains of his mug. Mike huffed slightly and pour some of his coffee into John’s cup.

“So are you going to tell why you needed to sleep on my couch last night or is it still a secret?” He took a bite of the sandwich. Mayo smeared the corners of his mouth as he chewed the lettuce and soggy bread.

“I just didn’t want to sleep at my place. You know how it is.” John said as he poured some milk into his coffee.

“Sherlock?” Mike asked after he swallowed most of the food in his mouth. He wiped his lips with a paper serviette then repeated. “Did Sherlock do something?”

“Doesn’t he always?” John asked taking a sip of coffee.

Mike shoved a crisp into his mouth. “Let me ask ‘what did he do’ this time?”

Mike noticed John blush slightly. He set his sandwich down and stared at his friend. “Or was it you who did something?”

John’s teeth ran over his lower lip. “I might have, by accident ~~,~~ kissed him.”

“By accident?” Mike asked raising his eyebrows into his hairline. “What? You were running through the flat and crashed into him and locked lips. Or were you practicing mouth to mouth and sucked instead blew?”

“Shut up, you git. I kissed him. He proved someone was a murdered and it was announced on the telly. We were cheering and jumping around the flat and it happened. I grabbed him and kissed him.”

Mike waited until John stopped speaking, then he nodded his head and took another bite of sandwich. John glared at him while Mike macerated the meal.

“Well?” John scowled.

“I thought Sherlock would have been the one to kiss you first instead of the other way around.” Mike said around pieces of bread and turkey.

“What?” John asked confused.

“You don’t see it do you?”

“See what?”

“Sherlock.”

“Mike, please. I’m having a crisis here. What have I missed?” John pleaded.

Mike shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. Following it quickly with a sip of coffee. John waited but frowned as he watched his friend take his time.

“Since the first moment the two of you met. Since that day in the lab, I knew Sherlock was interested in you. But in the last few weeks, after you punched Victor and Sherlock moved in with you, he’s different.” Mike said.

He took another sip of coffee and lifted his mug towards the waitress. She came over and filled Mike’s mug and hesitated before she refilled John’s. Mike smiled and reached for the seed cake. John grabbed the plate and moved the dessert out of Mike’s reach.

“What do you mean ‘different’?” he asked.

Mike’s eyes switched from the plate up to John’s. “He is more than just interested in you John. Did you know he has scared two girls ways from you?”

“Two? Who?”

“Margery, the blond from microbiology lab and Norma, Sandy’s friend.”

“They both turned me down dates. How could he scare them away?” John asked.

“Sherlock knew as soon as he saw them speaking to you. He spoke to them later, when you weren’t around. He said Margery’s sole aspiration was to be a ‘Page three girl,’ and he told Norma she was so stupid she thought the capital of France was F. That you wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of them accept to get a leg over.”

“He what? Are you taking a piss? Oh, God, he made me sound like an arse. I’m surprised I haven’t been punched yet.” John felt sick.

“Well, to be honest, he did you a favor. Norma is as clever as pair of muddy boots. She thought the Notre Dame was built as a Disney attraction to go along with some movie.”

John couldn’t help himself, he laughed. “Okay, but really? He is interested in me? I mean, it’s probably just because I was there to help him after he was beat up so badly.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I do know I have never seen him like this before. Or you for that matter.” Mike said, as he stole his seed cake back from John.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him too. Like he was something precious. Made out of solid gold.”

John blushed slightly. “Well, he is – precious that is. I mean have you ever listened to how to figure things out. How observant he is. It’s remarkable.”

“And he’s not bad on the eyes either.” Mike said with a smile as he took his first bite of cake.

“Mike, I’m not gay,” John said dropping his voice and glaring at his friend.

“And I’m on a diet.” Mike took another bite of cake.

“It’s not like that, Mike.”

“John, you can say something is this way or that way, but then the right person comes along. And regardless if they are male or female, black or white or whatever, they are the right person. Is Sherlock the right person for you? Who knows, but don’t miss an opportunity to find out because of something you said. And don’t miss the chance because you don’t think others won’t be accepting of your choices. I mean, I’ve known you for a couple years now and I know you are not completely straight.”

“I’m . . .”

“John, don’t. Just go back home and talk to him. See if I’m wrong.” Mike finished the cake. “And if I’m wrong, my couch is always available for you.”

“Mike, if you are wrong. I’ll do more than just crash on your couch. I’ll make you suffer.”

Mike smiled. “I’m not worried.”


	8. Tell Me Why We are Wasting Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to ff_fan who helped me with the rugby terms. There is a scene that may be considered an underage sex. Skip the italic portion if you want to skip it.

Tell Me Why Are We Wasting Time

Embarrassed by his fleeing, John walked slowly into the flat. He wasn’t sure what he would find. But finding the place immaculately cleaned and a bottle of single malt scotch on the kitchen table wasn’t it. He looked around the room and wondered what had happened. He glanced around and realized Sherlock was not home. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Beside the bottle of whiskey was note from PC Lestrade.

_“Up for a promotion after Litkin/Liski case. Thanks, Greg.”_

John smiled and looked at the bottle. It was a good quality scotch. He would have to track Greg Lestrade down and offer him a drink.

The door of the flat opened and Sherlock came in carrying several shopping bags from Tesco. He looked up and was surprised to see John standing in the kitchen.

“John! You’re home!”

“Yeah, is that a problem?” John didn’t know why he asked it but maybe he just wanted to seem less nervous than he really was.

“No, problem, no. I just was . . . out shopping.” Sherlock plopped the bags on the kitchen table. He noticed John was holding the bottle of alcohol.

“You went shopping?” John asked surprised. In the months they had been sharing the flat, Sherlock never offered to do the shopping.

“Ah, yes. And Lestrade brought that over for you.”

“I think it was for you. You’re the one who solved his case for him,” John said as he set the bottle back down. He quickly pulled his hands back so Sherlock couldn’t see them shake.

“Yes, I did but . . .” Sherlock looked nervous too. “I cleaned up too. I thought you would like to come home to a clean flat.”

John glanced around and muttered, “Yeah, it looks great.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” John said as the same time Sherlock said, “It was my fault about . . .”

Both men stopped and looked uncomfortably at each other. John waved his hand urging Sherlock on. “Go ahead.”

“No, you go first.” Sherlock mumbled.

“I – oh, fuck it. I should have asked you before I kissed you. It was just a spontaneous response. I wasn’t trying to press you into anything and I was a prat for running out like I did. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and he seemed to relax but only slightly. “You didn’t offend me, John. And I wish I could be as spontaneous as you were.”

John laughed. “I think you are spontaneous enough for both of us. You seem to have no inhibitions whatsoever.”

Sherlock let a small smile skim over his face briefly. “What I’m trying to say is I wasn’t upset that you kissed me. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to kiss you back – or you didn’t stay to see what might happen next.”

John felt his stomach do a flip.

“What do you mean?” He asked. Sherlock saw the slight blush deepen on John’s cheeks.

“John, you are a reasonably intelligent person. You must know that you are attractive both physically as well of intellectually to me.”

“Are you calling me smart?” John asked trying to act calm. He relied on humor when he became nervous.

“Smarter that the average idiot that inhabits London.” Sherlock said. Then he noticed the flash of ire in John dark blue eyes. He ducked his head. “Yes, I called you intelligent.”

John realized Sherlock was as nervous as he was. It seemed to give him courage to know they were both on equal footing.

“And you wanted to kiss me back?” John pushed. A small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Maybe Mike was right. Maybe he had been missing things around here.

Sherlock looked up and John saw a flash of something wicked in those silvery orbs.

“I wanted to do more than just kiss you back, John. I wanted to do numerous things with you. Most of them naked.”

Sherlock watched as the expression on John’s face went from embarrassed to shocked to intrigued to hungry in mere seconds. The apprehension he felt melted away.

“John, if you will let me, I want to kiss you now.”

John didn’t answer Sherlock. He took a step forward and leaned into Sherlock’s space. Sherlock twisted his head and leaned down. Gently touching his lips to John’s. Hesitantly at first, and when he felt John lean more heavily into his body, Sherlock cupped John’s face with his hands. Holding the man close so Sherlock could deepen the kiss. Sweeping his tongue over John’s lip and pressing it into John’s mouth.

John’s arms naturally moved to wrap around the thin body of the other man. He hummed at the taste of Sherlock’s mouth. And slid his own tongue languidly against Sherlock’s. It was perfect. As if they had been kissing each other forever, but still new and exciting.

The kiss ended naturally and Sherlock leaned his forehead against John’s. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered.

“Now what?” John asked and snuck a quick chaste kiss.

Sherlock smiled and slipped his hand behind John’s neck, holding the man close, Sherlock returned to kissing the shorter man. John hummed and moved his hands from Sherlock’s waist to over his back, pulling the taller man closer.

It felt so natural to John. He wondered why he had hesitated to even start in the first place. This was Sherlock he was kissing. His friend, but something even more.

They stood there for several minutes simply kissing each other. When they finally broke apart, Sherlock shifted and started to kiss along John’s jaw line and down his neck.

“Come to the bedroom with me,” Sherlock ghost over John’s skin.

John’s stomach flipped again. _‘Too fast’_ flashed somewhere in his mind.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was breathy and he sounded wreaked. “Sherlock, you need to give me time to adjust to this.”

“What do you mean? Adjust to what?” Sherlock asked just before he bit the thick muscle at the connection of John’s neck with his shoulder.

John moaned and bucked his hips forward. He felt himself melting in Sherlock’s arms. He realized he could get quite use to having that man’s undivided attention on him. Fighting to regain control, he continued to explain himself.

“I’ve never . . . oh that feels wonderful. I’ve never been with a man before.”

“You’re not going to try and convince me you are a virgin, John.” Sherlock said as he returned to kissing John’s mouth. John moaned.

Sherlock pushed and the two men stepped in unison towards the wall. When Sherlock had John pinned to the wall, he returned to kissing his neck.

“No, I’m not a . . . oh fuck, Sherlock, don’t stop.” John sagged in Sherlock’s grip. He regained himself. “There were one or two hand-jobs in the locker room and maybe one spectacular blowjob. But I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Sherlock complained but continued to kiss John’s face and jaw. “What do you want?”

John closed his eyes and tried to focus but his mind seemed to have short circuited out. All he could concentrate on was the sensation of Sherlock’s touches.

“You need to stop,” John groaned. He hated having to say that.

“Why?” Sherlock started nipping on the John’s earlobe.

“Oh, God. Please, I can’t think.”

“Then just go with it,” Sherlock purred in his ear.

“No, no, I can’t.” With Herculean strength, John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him back. “We can’t.”

“I don’t see why,” Sherlock began to argue.

“Because . . .” John struggled to remember why they shouldn’t as he stared in Sherlock’s silvery blue eyes staring back at him. “Because you are confused.”

“I’m assure you I am not,” Sherlock insisted.

“I’m definitely confused and I’m not coming out of a bad relationship looking for a rebound.”

Sherlock dipped his chin like he had been slapped. A deep frown craved into his face. “You think you are a rebound to me?”

“I said confused. I don’t know. I don’t want to be and I think you don’t want me to be, but we need to take it slow to make sure.” John tried to sound reasonable but all he could think was he sounded like an idiot.

Sherlock stared at John silently. The seconds seemed to draw out to centuries. John wondered if he could take everything back he had said and return to kissing Sherlock. Then Sherlock took a step backwards and nodded his head.

“That would be a logical conclusion. I assure you that I do not consider you a rebound from Victor, but I could see were you would have reason to doubt me. Stupid as it maybe.”

John blinked his eyes. “Okay, then – we’ll take it slow. You’ll let me come to this in my own time?”

“I’ll give you all the time you need John, as long as you quite quickly. Don’t make me wait forever.”

John took a step forward and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock reached up to take hold of John, but the shorter man stepped away.

“I promise.”

~221~

That night John slept on the couch again, but in the morning he found a long lanky dark-haired octopus had curled around his body. John smiled at the sleeping man beside him on the fold out bed. The next night, they shared the bed in the bedroom, but John still kept insisting they take things slow. Sherlock had to content himself with kisses and touches. Nothing more.

~221~

John was leaving class and heading over to open the bar for the late afternoon crowd. He was in a good mood for once and he was enjoying it. The last test he took in chemistry had been his highest grade to date. With Sherlock sharing the expenses of the flat, John was finally able to put some money away in the bank. His rugby team won their last two games. And he had a gorgeous dark-haired boyfriend, who looked like an angel but kissed like a demon.

He still was unsure if Sherlock was ready for another physical relationship, but he was even more uncertain if he was ready for the requirements of a homosexual relationship. He knew he found Sherlock attractive and desirable, but would he find the act of homosexual intercourse as enjoyable as heterosexual?

He thought back to the brief encounters when he was younger.

_He was only fifteen. He was the youngest player on his rugby team in school. He was also the smallest and the quickest so the coach wanted to make him a scrum half. One day after practice, John had been very depressed. Some of his teammates, lead by the currant scrum half, were not accepting him as a member. They had purposely picked on him during practice. Hitting him harder than was necessary and piling on top of him in tackles. His small round face sported a very obvious black eye from a teammate’s elbow. John’s body had welts all over it. Dark blue-black bruises that seemed to bloom larger under the hot water of the showers. It was just like being around his drunk father._

_John was ready to quit._

_He was alone in the shower, the rest of the team having already left. He twisted under the hot water, trying to ease the pain in his muscles as he struggled to not start crying. He failed, as the first tear slipped down and merged with the water droplets on his face._

_“Hey Watson.”_

_John turned and saw one of the other players walk into the shower. It was Robert Carpenter. ‘Bobby’. He was seventeen and the fly-half. He had appreciated John’s speed and wasn’t threatened by his addition to the team._

_“How are you doing, John?” Bobby asked as he stepped closer._

_“Fine.” John said as he turned away from the older boy and stared at the tile wall._

_“They beat the shit out you today,” Bobby said as he stepped closer to John._

_As the fly-half, Bobby directed the play on the field. He recognized the benefit of someone like John on his team. And because of that, he had not bullied him in practice._

_“I’m fine.” John said wishing the other boy would leave._

_“They are just jealous, John. You’re the fastest out there. They can’t keep up with you and they know it.” Bobby was standing right behind John now. John could sense how close the older boy was to him._

_“I think you are going to be a great player. Maybe even good enough to get a scholarship or something.” Bobby’s hands rested lightly on John’s shoulders._

_John didn’t move._

_“You’re also better looking.” Bobby said softly._

_“Quit pulling my leg,” John whinged. Bobby stepped closer. John felt the brush of Bobby’s groin against his backside._

_“John, I like you.” Bobby whispered into John’s ear._

_“What are you doing?” John asked as he felt Bobby’s hands move slowly over his shoulders and down his chest. John’s pulse rate jumped._

_Bobby stepped closer and pressed his chest into John’s back. John felt very warm and it wasn’t from the water._

_“I want to do this and I want you to do it for me.” Bobby’s hand ghosted lower over John’s groin._

_“But . . .” John glanced towards the door of the shower room and then up at Bobby’s face over his shoulder._

_“We’re alone. I promise.” He took John’s limp penis in his hand. The fifteen-year old’s member quickly filled. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first saw you. I’ll stop if you tell me to.”_

_“But . . .” John felt overwhelmed. His heart was racing. He couldn’t seem to breath properly. He had done this for himself several times, but the sensation of having someone else do it to him was amazing. He didn’t want it to stop._

_“I just want to make you feel good. I want you to stay on the team and prove how good you really are. I want to make you happy.” Bobby began to stroke John’s length._

_It felt wonderful and terrifying. It felt exhilarating and illicit. It felt perfect and wrong._

John hadn’t thought about ‘Bobby’ Carpenter for several years now. He wondered if Bobby ever thought of him. It had been John’s introduction to sex with another person. They had only been together three times. Two hand jobs in the showers after everyone else left and the first blowjob John had ever received. It was after they had won their regional championship. After that, Bobby had moved away and John never heard from him again. He wondered where the man was now and what he was doing. He felt a stab that they hadn’t stayed in touch and suddenly wondered if the same would happen with Sherlock.

John was so caught up in his memories he didn’t notice the car parked next to the curb. The phone Sherlock had given him buzzed in his pocket and John immediately pulled it out. The caller id was blocked.

“Hello?” John answered.

“Get into the car, John.” The voice said.

John thought he recognized the voice. He stopped walking and glanced around. The car was parked beside the curb and a man was standing beside it. He had opened the back door and seemed to waiting for John to get in.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t force me to make threats. Get into the car.”

John glanced up and down the street. There didn’t seem like anyone who was watching him. No one who would help him.

“Why?”

“We need to speak about Sherlock.” The voice said.

John didn’t hesitate, he got into the car.


	9. Take My Hand, We’ll Be Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has an unpleasant encounter

Take My Hand, We’ll Be Fine

The car drove east and toward the warehouses near the river. John’s foot tapped nervously on the carpeted floor of the backseat. The driver never looked in the rearview mirror at him. John wasn’t sure if that was more intimidating or not. The other man in the front seat, the man who had held the door opened for him, looked like he could snap John in two if he chose.

“Look, I want to know where you are taking me.” John said. He tried to sound demanding and in control, but it came out more like a plea.

The two men ignored him.

“What has happened to Sherlock?”

Nothing from the front seat.

John began to wonder if it would be better to jump out of the car at the next light. He tried the door handle but the door was locked. He was trapped. Suddenly, John had a horrible feeling that it could have been Victor Trevor who had tricked him. He wondered if these two were friends of the brute.

“If Trevor put you up to this, you’re going to regret it. I will press charges. I’m not afraid of him. I will make sure that bastard goes to jail.”

The driver finally looked at John in the rearview mirror. His eyes were blank and dull. It was obvious he didn’t know who Trevor was. John wasn’t sure if that was better or not.

The black saloon drove into an empty warehouse. The dirty windows prevented sunlight from reaching inside the building. The driver turned on the headlamps. They parked the car and the man in the front seat got out. The yellowish light reflected off a single chair in the middle of the room. He opened the back door and stared at John.

John hesitated but he decided it would better for him to get out of the car instead of being dragged. He got out and followed the man over to the chair.

“He said you were to sit down and wait for him.”

“Who? Wait for who?” John asked. He refused to sit.

The man stepped back and folded his hands in front of himself. He stared ahead of himself, ignoring John’s questions. John stared at him, confused.

“Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“He is trained to ignore inane question, John.” A voice came out of the dark corners of the room.

John twisted and glanced around trying to find the source.

“He is a soldier. Just like you want to be.”

John glanced at the man standing beside him then back out into the darkness.

“Not exactly. I want to be a surgeon. The army is giving the opportunity to become one.” John thought he recognized the voice.

The sound of someone walking closer echoed in the dim light. John squinted trying to see if he was correct. He saw the thin legs first. The trim leg of the grey trousers. Then the rest of the man came into the light cast by the car’s headlamps.

“Mycroft, was this really necessary?” John took an audible sigh of relief.

“John, you should realize that everything I do is necessary.” Mycroft said as he stepped closer and loomed over John.

John took a moment to look the man up and down, then he smiled. “You want to talk about Sherlock?”

“I worry about him constantly.”

“And you thought trying to intimidate me would make me – what? Leave him? Spy on him? What? Is that it you want me to do? Spy on him?” John sat down relaxed.

“Are you trying to emulate the bravery of the soldier?” Mycroft said snidely.

“No, I just don’t find you very frightening.” John said nonchalantly.

“You should reconsider,” Mycroft sharpened his tone but was confused by the younger man’s attitude.

“I’ve already stared you down wearing nothing but a towel. I don’t think this ‘cloak and dagger’ routine in going to scare me off.” John waved his hand in the air nonchalantly.

Mycroft realized his mistake. He took a moment to regain control of the conversation.

“I would make it worth your while.”

“No. Not interested,” John said.

“You’re not interested in spying on him or leaving him?” Mycroft asked.

“Either one.”

“I could make things very difficult for you if you chose to stay with my brother.”

“I doubt it.”

“You are on a scholarship.”

John felt a wave a resentment pass over him. He needed that scholarship to finish out the school year before he left for the army. If he lost it, then he could possible loose his place in training.

“Why do you want me to leave Sherlock. Why is it so important to you?”

“Sherlock is very naïve regardless of how many people he sleeps with. I don’t want to see him become involved with someone who will hurt him.”

“I would never willing hurt Sherlock,” John said firmly.

“But you will. You know on some subconscious level I’m correct. You will cause Sherlock pain. That is the reason your relationship hasn’t become more – physical,” Mycroft said.

John stood up. The chair skidded backwards across the concrete. He didn’t want to think how Mycroft knew he and Sherlock hadn’t actually had sex yet.

“Intentionally or not, you will hurt my brother. And I find that unacceptable.”

“Never!”

“And I cannot permit it.”

John glared at the man.

“Did you ever have this conversation with Trevor, or am I the only one who gets the threats?” John repulsed asked. “Let me guess, Trevor was a rich boy from the ‘City’ and acceptable to you and your snooty crowd. The kid on the rugby scholarship who has to work to make ends meet is beneath you and your family.”

“Sherlock is my only family. If I had known what Victor was doing to Sherlock, I would have put a stop to it,” Mycroft said sincerely.

“If you had known? I knew the first time I met him! It was obvious! His bruises were obvious.” John threw back in the taller man’s face.

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t care. And now that there is someone there who does care, you feel threatened. Well, fuck you. I will take care of Sherlock. I will do a better job than you ever did.” John glared.

“Even after you leave to join the army?” Mycroft snapped.

“Even after I leave, I will still care and take care of him.”

“Think about what you have just said, John. Think about what you have just promised. You will be thousands of miles away from him. How could you . . .” Mycroft looked repulsed as his eyes traveled up and down John’s body. “How could you possible protect him. I don’t care what you think of me, but I do care for Sherlock and I won’t be remiss again about his wellbeing.”

Mycroft glared one more time at John, then walked around him. The man who had been the in the car with John went and opened the backdoor of the saloon for Mycroft. Mycroft got in and the door was closed. The man got into the front seat and the car drove out of the warehouse, leaving John standing in the dark, furious and resentful. He promised himself if he ever saw that poncy face again, he would punch it.

~221~

As a young boy, John spent every day of his life being threatened. Threatened by his abusive father. Threatened by the dangerous people he and his sister had met when they were living on the streets. Threatened by his personal choices. Threatened by the hardships of life itself.

John was tired of being threatened.

Mycroft had threatened John’s future. John had fought too hard and too long to allow some poncy bastard make him grovel. John thought about the possibility of losing his scholarship if the coaches learned about him and Sherlock. The season was almost over. His school fees were mostly paid up for the year. If he lost the scholarship he could possibly make enough money to finish out the year until he could join the Army. It would be extra hours at work and less time to be with Sherlock or to study, but he could do it. He was willing to do for the both of them.

Then Mycroft Holmes could never touch him again. He could try and kidnap him or threaten him, but John would be protected. And John would be able to protect Sherlock.

John realized it did not matter any longer. John could be in an open relationship with Sherlock and no one would be able to hurt them. Scholarship or not, he and Sherlock could be lovers.

All he needed to do was be honest with Sherlock.

~221~

By the time John had gotten back to flat, he had missed his shift at the bar. He probably had also lost his job because of Mycroft. Another reason to hate the interfering bastard. John was cold and angry. He had to walk a couple of miles until he found a tube station, then switch trains twice, until he got to the line that would take him home. It was almost half ten, when he walked through the door of the flat.

“John, your boss called looking for you. Where were you?” Sherlock asked as soon as John walked in.

“Your brother thought he would take me for a sightseeing trip of Thurrock.”

“Thurrock? Why would he – oh, did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asked.

“No, he offered me money to leave you.”

“What!? I’m going to throttle him!” Sherlock growled and went to grab his coat.

John caught Sherlock’s arm and stopped him. “He said I’m going to hurt you.”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment then dropped his coat on the back of a chair. “How?”

“You know that I’m planning on joining the army?”

“I know that is a possible way of completing your clinical rotation for medical school. But there are other options, John. We could find another way for you to get your training.” Sherlock said.

“I’ve signed commitment papers,” John said.

“You don’t need the army, John. You can get the training without them.”

“Sherlock, I have to go. It’s the only way for me to become a surgeon,” John said.

“I refuse to believe that. Many things can happen between now and then.” Sherlock stepped closer to John. “Look at what’s happened so far in the past four months.”

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m more interested in what is going to happen in the next few minutes.”

John grabbed the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulled him with him towards the couch. John fell backwards and pulled Sherlock down with him.

“John are you . . .” Sherlock couldn’t finish his question because John was kissing him again. Fervently and possessively.

“The whole way back, I thought about it, Sherlock. I thought about us, and what I want us to be. I want this. I want you.”

Sherlock groaned as his world shifted sideways. He felt John palming his groin. Sherlock gasped. He didn’t know how aroused he was until he felt the pressure of John’s hand on him. He rested his forehead on John’s and closed his eyes. His attention fixed on the sensation of John’s hand. When he heard the snap of a button being undone and the rasp of a zipper, he forced his eyes open. He needed to watch. His own hands moving rapidly to John’s waistband.

Sherlock watch as well as felt John’s fingers skim over his clothed penis. It sent a shiver up his spine. He groaned as he struggled to open John’s jeans. The concentration it took seem insurmountable as John ghosted over his swollen length.

“Is this what you thought about walking home?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes.”

“What took you so long to get back here?”

John hummed in amusement just before Sherlock bit down on the tender skin beneath John’s ear. John groaned and bucked up into Sherlock. It gave Sherlock enough of a distraction to get his hand into John’s pants. His cool fingers could feel the warmth and heaviness of John’s erection. Another shiver ran up Sherlock’s spine as a myriad of thoughts came to him.

_‘How large is John? What will he taste like? Can I take him all the way down my throat? What will it feel like when he fucks me? What will it feel like when I fuck him?’_

Sherlock’s cleaver fingers were already mapping out the girth and texture of John’s length. The smooth velvety skin over an iron hard rod. Sherlock’s mouth watered. He twisted up so he could watch. He had to watch!

“Inside . . .” Sherlock growled as John continued to tease him with his hand outside of Sherlock’s pants.

John was panting hard now. His hand slipped between the layers of fabric to reach for Sherlock’s penis.

“Oh shit . . . Sherlock, please. I can’t take.” John begged. “OH fuck . . . perfect . . . just a little . . .”

John tightened his grip on Sherlock and sped up his strokes. Sherlock matched John’s movements as he listened to the litany of curses and praises coming from the man. Sherlock watched as John suddenly tightened the muscles in his body and thrusted his hips up into Sherlock’s hand. The warm release pouring out over his fingers.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was by John’s hand or the image of John’s own release that sent him over the edge too. His climax was powerful and draining. He fell into John’s body. Each man holding the other. Their panting drowning out every other sound in the room.

Slowly, Sherlock looked down into John’s open and relaxed face. John’s dark blue eyes were clear and look more euphoric than Sherlock had ever seen before. It was wonderful and at that moment, Sherlock knew he always wanted to see that look on John’s face. He smiled back at the other man.

“You should get angry and walk five miles every day.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled up teasingly.

“You bastard,” John groaned but there was no heat or animosity behind the insult. He smiled and leaned up for a brief and chaste kiss.

“I think we need to revise our sleeping habits, don’t you?” Sherlock asked as he slowly extracted his hand from John’s pants and jeans.

John did the same from Sherlock’s trousers. He glanced down at the mess on his hand.

“I think if I do, I won’t survive to morning.” John laughed.

“I promise you that I will do everything in my power to keep you alive, John.” Sherlock smiled. “Everything.”

Sherlock promised himself he would find a way to keep John from leaving for the Army.


	10. I'll Stop Time for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs into to someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is late getting updated. Internet problems.

I’ll Stop Time for You

Just as he was afraid would happen, John lost his job. Sherlock insisted it didn’t matter but John refused to be a burden on their growing relationship. He tried to find jobs near the hospital but with no luck. He asked his teammates if they knew of any jobs and the answers were no. He checked the want-ads in the newspapers but found nothing that would work. Frustrated and worried, John finally went to the one bar to apply for a job that Sherlock asked him not to. ‘Frankie’s Backdoor’.

The Backdoor, as it was known, was one of the gay dance clubs near school. The owner, Frankie Oskar, was an older man and friend of Sherlock, but Sherlock never gave a clear answer how the two knew each other.

Sherlock had brought John there for dancing at night and the place looked fashionable. Black floors and tables. A underlit bar with a bank of mirrors behind it. An open dance floor of white and black squares that looked like a chess board. Strobe lights of various colors synchronized with the loud music.

During daylight hours, the place looked dodgy. The black furniture was chipped and stained. John could see cracks in the mirror behind the bar. It was had also yellowed and looked dingy. The dance floor showed scuff marks and the white tile appeared more grey. The black floors were sticky.

A man was slowly mopping the floor near a raised stage that John didn’t know was even in the bar. Frankie was sitting at a table that gave him a view of the whole room, with the bar behind him. He was reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette. A cup of coffee sat in front of him with a soggy looking pastry on a plate.

“You bet-er’ do a’s bet-er’ job this time Benny or your bum is out!” Frankie yelled at the man mopping the floor.

There was crash of bottles behind Frankie. He twisted and glared at the man restocking the bar.

“You break it, you pay for it,” Frankie barked.

John hesitated then walked up to the table.

“Frankie?” John asked.

The man turned and squinted at John. For all his bluster, Frankie Oskar was not an intimidating man. He in his early fifties but tried to look fifteen years younger. He carefully styled his hair to cover up the fact he was going bald. He had a doughy face of soft white skin with dark brown eyes and small mouth. He was over two hundred pounds and appeared to not be a fan of any kind of exercise except dancing.

He blinked several times as he looked at John. Then opened his eyes brightly and wave John over to a seat.

“Johnny, good morning. What brings you around? Is Sherlock with you?” Frankie’s course Eastend accent had vanished with the realization a patron was present. “You know we aren’t open this time of day.”

“Yeah, I mean yes. And Sherlock is not with me. He doesn’t even know I’m here.” John said after he sat down.

“Ooo, are we in a conspiracy? Are we planning something for Sherlock?” Frankie leaned forward. Once again, John wonder how the two men knew each other.

“Not exactly. Last time we were in here, Martin said you needed another bartender.”

Frankie leaned back in his chair but didn’t say anything. John continued.

“I’m pretty good at it. And I can work most nights. And I already know most of the guys who work here.”

“Why do you want to work here? Sherlock got a trust fund. You don’t need to work,” Frankie said.

John bristled. “I pay my own way. I don’t need Sherlock to take care of me.”

“Does Sherlock know you want to work here?” Frankie asked.

“No.”

“He will blame me if anything happens to you here. I don’t know if it would be worth it to get another bartender.” Frankie said, but John could already tell that he probably had the job. “Show me how you pull a pint.”

The two men got up and went over to the bar. Frankie climbed up onto one of the barstools. The wood squeaking as he sat down. John walked around to the back of the bar. He grabbed a pint glass and gave it a slight twirl in the air.

“Don’t do that. Broken glassware comes out of your paycheck,” Frankie said flatly.

John nodded and went up to the tap. He opened it and allowed two seconds of beer to run out. Then he set the glass at a forty-five-degree angle and let the beer slide down the interior of the glass. Slowly moving the glass to vertical as it filled. He set the perfectly pulled pint on the counter in front of Frankie.

Frankie picked it up and took a sip. “Aahh. You’ll have to flirt.”

John nodded his head.

“You don’t think that will be a problem?” Frankie asked.

“With me or with Sherlock?” John asked back.

“Either.”

“I’ll make sure it isn’t. I can flirt. Maybe not as well with blokes as I do with the girls, but it’s all the same isn’t it?”

Frankie smiled. “Will see. Tonight, you work with Martin. Do what he does and listen to him. If he thinks you can handle yourself, you have a job. Also, you know about the uniform?”

John swallowed. “Yeah. I’ll get one.”

“Be wearing it when you come in.”

“Okay.” John knew if anything was going to get Sherlock angry it was the idea of John wearing the bartender’s uniform of Frankie’s. A t-shirt cut off at the mid-drift and short shorts. More ass-cheeks showing the better.

~221~

To say Sherlock was unhappy about John’s new job would have been an understatement.

“You can’t work there!” Sherlock shouted.

“Why not? I need a job, they need a bartender,” John said as he started to cut the bottom half off his blue t-shirt.

Sherlock rushed forward and grabbed the scissors. “Because!”

“Sherlock, that is not a good reason.” John said as he reached for the scissors.

Sherlock threw his hands over his head and held the scissors out of John’s reach. The shorter man tried to leap up once. Then frowned as he glared at his boyfriend.

“You’re being childish, Sherlock. Give me those scissors.” John growled.

“I don’t want you to work there.”

“I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I need the money. I need to pay my part of the expenses around here.”

“Is it really that important to you?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes it is.” John said as he took a step back. “I do have my pride. I won’t be sponge. I already know people think I’m taking advantage of you for your money and frankly I hate that. I hate the idea that people think I’m so – sleazy.”

Sherlock lowered his hands. “I would never think that, John.”

“I know you wouldn’t think that but other people do.”

“Who thinks that?”

“Well to start with, the people at the Backdoor, Frankie and Martin.”

“What does it matter what other people think?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m studying to be a doctor. I’m working to a future. If people think the only way I get there is by – I don’t know – prostituting myself, that makes my accomplishments less. It diminishes me. Taking advantage of you, would make me less of a man.”

“John, you are being ridiculous.”

“Sherlock, give me the scissors.” John demanded.

Sherlock handed the scissors to John. John took them and finished cutting the bottom off his t-shirt.

“But if anyone tries anything with you - if someone hits on you . . .” Sherlock started.

“Dress this way, I expect a few comments will be made,” John said as he smiled sideways at Sherlock.

“As long as you come home to me every night, I won’t interfere.”

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s lips. “Promise. I’ll be here every night to tuck you into bed.”

John turned and went into the bedroom. He needed to find the smallest shorts he had. He thought he might need to use the scissors again.

~221~

Sherlock didn’t keep his promise. As soon as John had left the room, he rushed out of the flat and over to Frankie’s Backdoor. It was still an hour before the doors would officially open. Sherlock walked into the empty bar as if he owned the place. Frankie was sitting at the bar going over the invoices when he saw the younger man. Frankie shook his head and placed a hand over his face.

“He told you.”

“What are you thinking?!” Sherlock hissed.

“I’m thinking that if I refused him, it would be more suspicious than if I told him yes.” Frankie said.

“He can’t work here.” Sherlock hissed.

“Why not? He seems to know what to do and he is good enough looking to work behind the bar.” Frankie offered. Sherlock glared.

“He can’t know.” Sherlock snarled.

“He won’t. No one is going to tell him. Besides, I’m sure after he is propositioned for the tenth time he’ll quit.” Frankie smiled.

“You tell everyone, ‘Hands off’! No one is to touch John. No one.” Sherlock growled.

“Sherlock, he’s a grown man. He’ll do what he wants to do regardless of what you want. And if he finds out about our – arrangement, then it is one less thing you need to lie about.”

~221~

The first night John worked at Frankie’s, he broke three glasses. The cost of three glasses came out of his share of the tips. The next night, he had his arse pinched. He spun around to punch the pincher only to see one of the bouncers pull the guy up by his shoulders and push him towards the door. After a week, he quit blushing when he had to ask a new customer if they would like a ‘Blowjob’. He had several takers who were surprised when John set a small glass on the counter of Baily’s, Kahlua, and whip cream.

John worried about his coaches finding out. He lied to them about where he worked. And it worked until one of them came in with a male date. The coach and John saw each other, then walked away as if they didn’t know each other. The next day at practice, the coach asked John to keep quiet about it. John learned his scholarship was safe.

John quickly fell into a routine. Morning in class, afternoons at rugby practice and every other night working at Frankie’s. Saturdays were game days but Sunday morning was his favorite. Mornings laying in bed with Sherlock. Warm bodies, soft kisses, and pleasurable touches. The two of them cocooned in in their under the blankets and wrapped in each other’s arms. John was happy. Probably the happiest he had ever been. He couldn’t stop smiling all the time.

Sherlock was working on his graduate thesis in Chemistry and seemed to be just as happy with their relationship too. Although he insisted John shower every night he came home from the bar, regardless of how late it was, before John crawled into bed with him.

John had been working at the dance bar for two months when he heard a familiar voice over the thumbing of the music and people talking.

“John!”

John turned and saw the open and friendly face of Wilderbrant. Wilderbrant’s blond hair almost looked white in the glaring and flashing lights of the bar. He was dressed in a simple oxford shirt and dark trousers.

“Hey, there.” John smiled back at the man.

“I didn’t know you worked here.” Wilderbrant said.

“Yeah, for a couple of months now.” John glanced sideways at the other bartender, Martin. “Look, I’m supposed to ask you something but . . .”

“No, I don’t want a blowjob.” He let a high pitch laugh slip out of himself. “Never thought I would ever say that to you.”

John noticed a blush sweep over the other man’s pale cheeks. John smiled back. “Thanks, I mean, you’ve seen me half naked. It would be a bit odd. What can I get you?”

“Just a pint, I’m waiting for my new boyfriend.” Wilderbrant turned away from John and scanned the crowd of the bar. The music was getting louder and the strobe lights picked up speed. Reds and yellows flashed around them.

John pulled a pint for the man and turned back. “That’ll be five.”

John held out the drink to Wilderbrant but nearly dropped it. Standing next to Wilderbrant, with his arm wrapped tightly around the younger man’s waist, was Victor Trevor. Victor’s eyes moved up and down John’s body. Taking in the John’s bare abdomen and the short shorts. Victor sneered and took the beer from John’s hand, drinking it instead of giving it to Wilderbrant.

“Sherlock moved on already?” Victor asked.

“Get out!” John growled.

Victor laughed. “I don’t listen to the help. Pour me vodka with a twist . . .” He gave John another salacious stare. “Boy.”

John’s angry was flaring. Wilderbrant glanced between the two of them confused.

“John, do you know my boyfriend?” Wilderbrant asked.

“Boyfriend?! Look, dump him now. He’s a bastard. For your own good dump him.” John shouted over the music.

Victor scowled and tossed the remained of the beer into John’s face. John set his hands on the bar, preparing to launch himself over it and at Victor, when Martin stepped up. He grabbed John’s wrist and stopped him.

“What’s going on?” Martin asked.

“Your assistant is flirting with my date.” Victor said as he set the glass down on the bar top.

“You fucking liar.” John growled.

“John, go check the taps.” Martin said as he pulled John back. He tossed a bar towel at John. “Cool off while you are down there.”

John stepped back and glared once more at Victor, before he opened a trap door in the floor, behind the bar. Steps led down to a storeroom under the dance floor, where bottles of alcohol and kegs of beer were kept. John knew the taps were fine because he had changed them just before his shift started. He sat down on the edge of a table and wiped the beer from his face and tried to dry his shirt with the towel. John waited five minutes before he went back upstairs.

Frankie was waiting for him when he reached the bar.

“What happened?” Frankie asked.

“The guy that threw the beer at me used to date Sherlock.” John said. He forced himself to not try and look for Victor in the crowd.

“And?” Frankie pressed.

“He didn’t like me telling his date he was a bastard.” John muttered.

Frankie frowned. “Everyone knows Trevor is an arse-wipe. Don’t get involved with him.”

“But the kid with him . . .”

“Don’t.” Frankie said firmly. “It’s not worth it. Get back to work.”

John returned to the bar and started filling orders. It was twenty minutes before he noticed Wilderbrant and Victor dancing on the dance floor. Wilderbrant gave John a hesitant look then turned back to Victor. Victor had noticed the glance and sneered. He reached up and grabbed Wilderbrant’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the young man’s neck. Victor plunged forward and started to kiss and bite at the exposed skin. Wilderbrant twisted in his grip and wrapped his arms tightly around Victor’s shoulders.

John turned away and tried to focus on anything other than the two of them.

It was late and the bar was just before closing when John heard his name being called.

“John? Over here, John!”

He looked up and saw Wilderbrant leaning over the bar towards him. John glanced around and didn’t see Victor. Wilderbrant was waving John over to a corner where they could talk privately. John stepped around the bar. The bruises on Wilderbrant’s neck were prominent. The young man looked drunk. He was weaving slightly and his eyes were shiny and wide.

“John, I’m sorry.” Wilderbrant said.

“No reason you should apologize.”

“I didn’t know you knew Victor. We just started dating a week ago. He insisted we come here. I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright.”

John turned to return to bar when he heard Wilderbrant scream. “VICTOR!”

John twisted just in time to see Victor swinging an empty beer bottle at John’s head. John ducked and the bottle crashed against the wall over John’s head. Glass and beer rained down on John. He stood up and swung his fist. He caught Victor right on the chin and man’s head snapped violently to the side. Wilderbrant kept up screaming and crying. Victor swiped at John with the broken bottle and John had to jump back to avoid being cut, but he was caught in the corner now and had nowhere to escape to. The next swing by Victor would slice John open. He raised his arm to protect his face, but the blow never came. John lowered his arm to see two of the bouncers pull Victor across the floor away from John. Wilderbrant followed them crying out Victor’s name.

John took a hesitant step forward and then leaned back into the wall. He shook as the adrenaline started to drain from his system. Frankie came up and looked him over.

“You okay?” Frankie asked.

“Don’t know, am I fired?” John asked.

“No, but he is banned from here forever. I promise.”

“Thanks. But I need another favor.” John said.

“What?”

“Don’t tell Sherlock.”

Frankie nodded his head. He didn't need Sherlock angry at him either.


	11. The Second You Say You’d Like Me Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts John about the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is safe and sound during the epidemic. Take care of yourself and keep writing.

The Second You Say You’d Like Me Too

The text came through to Sherlock’s phone from a blocked number. He hesitated before opening it. It was a photo of a fight. Confused as to why someone would send it to him, Sherlock stared at it for a moment. It looked like a crowded club. Maybe the Backdoor. He stared at it then he realized who the two men fighting were. John and Victor.

When John got home, Sherlock was waiting up for him. John could tell from the scowl on his face that Sherlock knew what had happened.

“You need to quit, John.”

“I need the money for school, Sherlock.” John said as he sighed heavily. He was tired and sticky from the beer splashed on him.

“I want you to quit.”

“And I don’t want to fight about it.”

“So quit.”

“NO.” John shouted, then regretted it. “Sorry – look, I’m tired and I smell of stale beer, and I just want to go to sleep. Can we just talk about this later – when we’re not so angry.”

Sherlock leaped up off his chair and stalked over to John.

“He is dangerous, John. He meant to provoke you tonight.”

“Of course he did. Don’t you think I know that?” John knew this argument was not going to end well.

“Next time he will attack you and claim self-defense. I know how he thinks. I know what he is planning for you.”

“I know you are an expert on the bastard. You let him use you as punching bag long enough.” Again, John regretted the words as soon as he said them. He watched as Sherlock jerked away. John sagged and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry, that was cruel.”

“No, you’re right. I could had left sooner. I could have called the police.”

John sat down heavily in a chair by the kitchen table. He rested his head in hands. “I just hate him so much. I hate him because he is a bully and for believing he has the right to do things like that. But mostly I hate him because of what he did to you. I hate remembering how scared and hurt you were. I don’t ever want to see you like that again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped closer and cupped John’s face with his palm. “He won’t hurt me again, John. You don’t need to worry about that. I’m stronger now. I won’t let him.”

John leaned into Sherlock’s stomach and breathed in the scent of his lover. It calmed him and reassured him.

“I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you again.” John whispered. Possessively, he wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Don’t worry, nothing will. Now, let me help you with that shower and tomorrow you will call Frankie and quit.”

John pulled away from Sherlock and glared up at the man. “Damn it, Sherlock. Give it a rest. I won’t quit and I won’t be kept. Just let me be myself!”

John stood up suddenly, pushing the chair over. He stomped off to the bathroom. Sherlock glared at John’s retreating back. He wondered if he could call Frankie and get him to fire John. But if he did, John would never forgive him. Frowning, he went off to bed. Flopping down on his side of the bed he waited. He listened to the water in the shower. John was a creature of habit and very efficient at showering. He knew John would be done in eight minutes then would join him in the bedroom.

The water in the shower was turned off. He could hear John moving around in the small bathroom. The sound of flushing toilet. The sound of water in wash basin. Then the door opened and the sound of the light being clicked off. Sherlock rolled onto his side and stared at the bedroom door. It didn’t open. He waited.

And waited.

After ten minutes, Sherlock crawled out of bed and slowly opened the door. He walked into the sitting room and saw John stretched out on the couch. He hadn’t even unfolded the bed. He was facing the back of the couch. A small blanket barely covered his naked body.

“John?” Sherlock asked hesitantly.

“Leave me alone, Sherlock. I don’t want to talk any more tonight.” John’s voice was muffled.

“Would you come to bed?”

“No, I think it would be better if I slept out here tonight.”

“But . . .”

“Good night, Sherlock.” He said letting Sherlock know the conversation was over.

Sherlock went back to the bedroom alone, wondering how he could fix this problem.

~221~

John woke up late. He rolled over on to his back, expecting to see Sherlock sitting next to him. Sherlock was not there. He was not in the flat and for a moment John wondered where the young man had gone. It was unlike Sherlock to go out without telling John. He wondered if he should go looking for him but he couldn’t. He was late for class and needed to get there.

John rushed through the halls of St Bart’s Hospital to get to rounds. Pulling his white lab coat on over his street clothes, he slipped in the back of the group students. The attending was discussing cases that had come into the hospital the night before.

“John, where have you been?” Mike slipped up next to his friend and whispered into his ear.

“Bad night at the bar,” John whispered back. His eyes fixed on the attending as he explained the complications of a brittle diabetic.

“I signed you in, but you don’t ask me to do that again.”

“I know. I had a fight with Sherlock when I got home. Ended up sleeping on the couch.”

“GENTLEMEN?” The attending cleared his throat. He glared at Mike and John. The other students turned and looked at them. “Are we keeping you from an important conversation?”

Mike wanted to melt into the tile floor while John tried to look contrite. “Sorry, just asking about possible ketoacidosis complications.”

The attending stared at them for a moment then nodded his head. He continued while he looked down his nose at John. “Mister Watson is correct in questioning the complications of ketoacidosis. Someone, give me the symptoms.”

The students returned their attention back to the attending. A young woman in the front of the crowd raised her hand and began to run off the list of symptoms. Mike and John slumped, relieved they were no longer the center of attention.

The small group of students followed the attending through the wards. Stopping at different beds and discussing the illness and treatment of each patient. John was listening intently and taking notes, when he passed by a bed with a badly beaten man.

He was not one of the patients the attending was lecturing on and John was about to walk away when he looked at the man’s face again. It was Wilderbrant.

“Oh my God!” John shouted. He moved to the side of the bed and looked down at the injured man.

Wilderbrant’s face was badly bruised and swollen. His left eye was bandaged and it appeared his left cheek bone was broken.

“Mister Watson! What is it now?” The attending snapped.

“My friend. This is my friend!”

The attending stepped forward and looked down at the chart. He read through the history and intake notes. He tutted and placed the chart back on the hook by the bed.

“Victim of an assault. Do you know him well?”

“He is the student manager of the university rugby team.” John said as he reached for the chart.

The attending stopped John from picking the chart up.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Watson. Your personal connection precludes you from having any contact with him professionally,” the attending said.

“What are you talking about?”

The attending took John by the elbow and pulled him away from the bed and out of earshot of the other students.

“Watson, it is obvious that your relationship with this person has hindered your ability to be professional. That outburst was unprofessional. That is not how a doctor behaves.”

John would argue the point, but now wasn’t the time.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I was surprised to see him here. I mean I saw him last night at the club and here he is this morning. What happened?” John asked as he realized he had made a terrible mistake in front of his professor. The man prided himself on his detachment from his patients.

“Sexual assault.” The attending said coldly.

The words were like molten lead poured over John’s head. He felt like they had blistered his skin. His stomach twisted and for a brief moment he thought he was going to throw-up on the attending. He swallowed the bile back down and took a moment.

“Sexual assault? You mean someone raped him?”

“Yes. The police may want to speak to you if you saw him last night.” The attending said indifferently. “But it will have to wait until after we are done with our rounds. If you are unable to remain impartial, I want you to leave now and not disrupt the rest of my lecture.”

John swallowed down another wave of bile. “No sir, I will be able to finish.”

“Very good, that sounds more like the professional I expect my students to be.”

~221~

John remembered Wilderbrant’s open and expectant face. How happy Wilderbrant looked every time he saw John. John realized that Wilderbrant probably had some sort of crush on him. It made John feel awkward before, but now, after the assault, the idea made John sad. Believing that Wilderbrant was so desperate for a connection to another human being, that he would date a monster like Victor. And now that open and happy face would be marred and damaged forever by that man.

John knew he had to do something. He had to stop Trevor. He fumbled with his phone and called a number he had be given almost a year before. He waited and listened.

“Sergeant Greg Lestrade, I am unable to take a call at this minute. Leave your name and number and what this is regarding and I will return your call when I’m available.” There was a beep.

John opened his mouth to speak, but then the words were choked off deep in his throat. He couldn’t prove Victor had beat up Wilderbrant. He couldn’t accuse the man of doing it even if he believe deeply he had done so. John hung up the phone. He couldn’t leave a message. He didn’t know what to do. He started to walk. And he kept on walking for the next five hours.

The sun had set by the time John made it back to the flat. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his fingertips poised under his chin. He sat down opposite Sherlock and waited. John watched Sherlock who remained still in a trans-like state. Within a few minutes, Sherlock blinked his eyes and noticed John.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing.” John said.

Sherlock studied the man. John’s eyes were red. _Had he been crying? Why would John be crying?_

John was there in the flat even though he was supposed to be working tonight at the dance club. _Why was John not working? Had he quit?_

John waited as Sherlock ran a series of deductions through his head. Then he said very calmly and very softly. “No, I didn’t quit. I called Frankie and told him I couldn’t come in tonight. He understood when I told him why.”

Sherlock was afraid of the next answer. “Why couldn’t you go in tonight? Is it because of – us?”

“Because of us, no. Involving us? Yes.”

Sherlock blinked trying to decipher John’s comment.

“Do you remember me telling you about the manager of the team, Wilderbrant?”

Sherlock took a moment to recall the name. Fortunately, it wasn’t something he had deleted.

“Yes, young homosexual male, blond hair, a hundred and twenty-two pounds, blue eyes, minimal intelligence, has a crush on you.”

John closed his eyes and steeled himself. “Yes. He was who Victor and I were fighting over last night.”

“Oh, I thought it was . . .” Sherlock trailed off.

“You thought it was about you. Well, in a way it was. And it was also about Wilderbrant too. He was there with Victor. He said Victor was his new boyfriend. I don’t know if it was true. I have a feeling Victor was with him just to get a rise out me.”

“Do you have a . . . close relationship with this Wilderbrant?” Sherlock asked.

“He was more like an acquaintance instead of a close friend, but it was obvious to several people that he was attracted to me. Before you ask, it was not reciprocated. I have a thing for tall insane genius. So no, I didn’t have a relationship with Wilderbrant but I considered him a friend of sorts. And Victor made sure I saw him with Wilderbrant.”

“Childish, but not unusual for Victor,” Sherlock said.

“I saw Wilderbrant today.” John continued. He could see Sherlock shift uneasily in his chair. “At hospital.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked.

“Sexual assault.”

“Victor?”

“That would be my guess. I tried to report him to Lestrade but I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“If Wilderbrant doesn’t file charges, what difference does it make.” John said.

“If I had filed charges, he would have been in jail and unable to hurt your friend.” Sherlock looked away from John.

“That’s not what I’m saying, but I just feel like he is going to get away with it again. He will never be held accountable for what he did to you or to me or to Wilderbrant.”

“Someday John. Someday the two of us will make sure he pays for it.”

~221~

The newspapers had only carried a brief mention of Wilderbrant’s assault, but not the rape. Victor Trevor’s name had not been mentioned. Wilderbrant had not regained consciousness yet and the doctors feared he might not.

The next day, the police came to Frankie’s Backdoor dance club and questioned John and Martin. They told the police about the fight and how Victor treated Wilderbrant. The police prodded at John repeatedly about how the fight between he and Victor started and how it ended. Who was the aggressor and what did John feel about it once it was over?

“I already explained that Wilderbrant asked to speak to me. We talked and I turned to return to the bar when Trevor tried to break a bottle over my head. Why do you keep asking the same questions over and over again?” John complained.

“It’s just routine.” The officer said. “So once again, you don’t know why he tried to hit you? You didn’t provoke him at all?”

John rolled his eyes and went through the events for the fourth time. Frustrated, John left work early and went home to the flat. Sherlock was waiting for him along with another detective from the Met.

“Inspector Brian Dimmit.” The man said to John without holding his hand out in greetings.

John glanced back and forth between Sherlock and Dimmit. “I already spoke to the officers at work. Why are you here?”

“He wanted to question me without you here, John.” Sherlock said as he sat down imperiously in his leather and chrome chair.

Confused John asked. “Sherlock wasn’t even at the bar. Why would you question him?”

Dimmit was about to say something when Sherlock interrupted him. “Because something else has happened. Probably something to do with Victor.”

John growled, “Let’m guess. He’s claiming I beat up and raped Wilderbrant!”

“No, he’s not making any such claim.” Dimmit said as he slowly stepped around John in a circle, studying what John was wearing. “Is this what you normally wear to work?”

John looked down at the cut off shirt and the short shorts. “Yes, Frankie Oskar’s idea not mine.”

“Oh.” Dimmit nodded his head. “You’re a student at University, is that correct?”

“Yes, I’m studying medicine.”

“And you’re on the rugby team?”

John was beginning to feel very exposed. “Yes.”

“Position?”

John glanced at Sherlock then back to Dimmit. “I alternate between scrum half and left wing.”

Dimmit nodded his head again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He thumbed through the pages. “You were in class until two o’clock yesterday. Is that normal?”

John wanted the man to leave. He wanted change out of the ridiculous clothes that Frankie insisted on. He wanted this to be over.

“Yeah, that’s about right. Sometimes I leave earlier if the lectures run short or sometimes I stay later and spend some time catching up in the lab.”

“But yesterday you left at two?”

“I think so. Yes, I left at two or just a little bit after.”

“And where did you go?” Dimmit asked.

“I ah, just went for a walk.” John said. He turned and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock’s face was unreadable and unemotional.

“Where did you go?” Dimmit asked.

John hesitated. He sputtered. “I . . . ah . . .”

“I already told you, Dimmit, John was with me.” Sherlock announced.

John turned and looked at Sherlock. The man’s face was still stoic.

“But he just said he went for a walk. So which was it? He went for a walk or he was here with you?”

“I met up with John after class and we walked until we arrived here late. We stayed in.”

“Anyone see you? Do you have any proof the two of you were together yesterday afternoon and night?”

“Well, I haven’t changed the sheets on the bed yet if you need to check.” Sherlock sneered at the officer.

“Is that true Mister Watson? Were the two of you together?” Dimmit asked.

John twisted back to look at the detective. “Yes.”

The man glared at John. “You know that giving false evidence in a criminal investigation is illegal?”

“Of course he knows,” Sherlock snapped. He stood up, gracefully unfolding his long legs. “Now, explain to us why John’s timeline for yesterday is so important to the investigation of an assault that took place the night before.”

“I’m not investigating the assault on Lenard Wilderbrant. I’m investigating the murder of Victor Trevor.”


	12. Tell Me What You Want to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to get help.

Tell Me What You Want to Do

“I’m not investigating the assault on Lenard Wilderbrant. I’m investigating the murder of Victor Trevor.”

John shook his head. He felt off balanced, like the room had tipped sideways. He wondered if the lights had changed in the room. _‘Oh, that’s shock.’_ He said to himself, then realized his doctor side was taking control of him. He walked across the room and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock had not said a thing. He stood quietly analyzing what Dimmit had just told them.

“Are you alright?” John asked Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t answer him but spoke to Dimmit.

“We were together all afternoon,” Sherlock repeated. “When was Victor murdered?”

“Usually people ask how their friend was murdered,” Dimmit said marking something down in his notebook.

“He was not our friend,” John said. He was amazed at how calm he sounded. He was shaking slightly. He could hear the rushing of blood in his ears.

“Then basic curiosity.” Dimmit looked up with a questioning eyebrow.

Neither man asked. Dimmit wrote that down too.

“He was shot. Sometime around three.” Dimmit said.

“Witnesses?” Sherlock asked.

“Why would you be concerned about witnesses?” Dimmit asked.

“Obviously you needed to establish a timeline and that timeline needed to be corroborated. Unless the murder was filmed on CCTV, you would need witnesses.” Sherlock said.

“You seem to know a lot about police procedures. Watch a lot of telly, do we?” The condescending tone of Dimmit’s question grated on both John and Sherlock’s ears.

“Basic intelligence. Every hear of it?” Sherlock sneered back.

“Sherlock,” John took Sherlock’s arm then addressed Dimmit. “Look, we don’t know anything about Trevor’s death. Yeah, we didn’t like him. We had good reason not to. Ask Sergeant Greg Lestrade, he was the reporting officer when Trevor assaulted Sherlock.”

“I’ve already spoken to Lestrade. And your coworkers at that dance club you work at, have been questioned too. They said you started the fight with Trevor the night before he died.”

“I did not.” John argued back. He wondered how Dimmit had gotten the information about the interviews so quickly.

Dimmit ignored him and referred to his notes. “Said you started shouting at Wilderbrant to leave Trevor.”

John thought for a moment then nodded his head. “Yeah, I told Wilderbrant that Trevor was a bastard, but I didn’t throw the first punch.”

“According to witnesses you did.” John was about to deny it when Dimmit continued. “Said you punched him in the face after he missed hitting you with a bottle. The bruise is still visible on his chin.”

John shifted uneasily. “I already told you I hit him. But he was the instigator, not me.”

“Witnesses also told us that you made quiet a scene at the hospital when you saw Wilderbrant. The doctor had to pull you away and reprimand you.”

John wondered when Dimmit had spoken to the doctors and his fellow students.

“He didn’t reprimand me. He told me to remain detached from the cases,” John said.

“So you did make a scene?” Dimmit asked.

“NO! I mean, I was surprised to see Wilderbrant there and in the condition he was in. I was angry because I knew who did it and I wanted him held responsible for it.”

“If you knew who was responsible, why didn’t you notify the police?”

“I tried, I called Lestrade.” John said, then remembered he hadn’t left a message. “But I couldn’t get hold of him.”

“There’s over a thousand people working for the Met and you only tried to contact one person and didn’t even leave a message. Sound’s like you weren’t very interested in letting the police know who was responsible for Lenard’s assault. Were you planning on dealing with it yourself?”

“NO!” John shouted.

“John,” Sherlock twisted and frowned at John for a moment, then turned back to Dimmit. “We have told you what we know about the murder. We can’t assist you anymore.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“You are becoming tedious. If you have any actual evidence to question us further, then have us arrested and brought in. Of course, we will insist on legal representation, though, before questioning. If not, you are asked to leave.” Sherlock said authoritatively.

“This won’t go away, you know.” Dimmit threatened.

“Obviously, it won’t but you will. Now leave. John and I wish to be alone.” Sherlock stormed across the room and held the door open.

Dimmit gave each man another decerning look before he closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. He walked out of the flat but turned around at the last moment.

“Don’t be planning any long trips.”

Sherlock slammed the door closed on the man’s face as he turned to John.

“Sherlock I didn’t . . .”

Sherlock raised his finger to his lips, signaling John to be quiet. Sherlock remained still, listening until he was certain Dimmit had moved away from the door.

John stepped closer and whispered. “I wasn’t with you yesterday. Why did you lie?”

“Did you murder Victor?”

“How can you ask that?! Of course not!” John barked back.

“Well, neither did I. So now we need to figure out who did.”

~221~

Greg Lestrade opened the door of his flat. Shuffling into the dark room, he set a cardboard box on the floor then struggled to get his overcoat off. It had been a long day. He had no leads in his investigation of the theft and his superiors were breathing down his neck. He was exhausted.

Kicking the front door closed, he pulled on the knot of his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt. He took a deep breath and let it slip out of him. He had been ecstatic about getting the promotion after he had arrested the rogue Russian general. He had been looking forward to actually solving cases instead of just taking the initial investigative reports. But the increased rank wasn’t what he was expecting.

He had been placed into the robbery division. Most of the crimes were easily solved ‘smash and grabs’ by local gangs and known criminals. Boring. Occasionally, there would be something unusual, a theft of diamond necklace or a bank robbery. But those cases were given to the more experienced detectives. Greg couldn’t blame his boss for assigning the cases to the veteran officers, but it left Greg with a great deal of job dissatisfaction.

Then it happened, and completely by accident. He was given a high-profile case. A theft at an art gallery. It was supposed to have been a simple robbery. A smash and grab but it turned into a frontpage event. During a reception for a prominent artist, some kids threw a brick through the front window of the gallery in an attempt to steal something. The crowd inside had turned to watch the boys grab two cheap paintings of limited note and the guards chased after them. When the guests turned around, the main display case was empty. A large painting, eight feet by thee feet, was gone. No one saw a thing. No one knew what had happened. It was a case that would make Greg’s career or destroy it.

Greg Lestrade moved further into his flat. His wife was out of town visiting her sister, so he would be alone tonight for dinner. Again. He wondered if he should try to fix something or get something delivered. He was tired and more than anything he just wanted to go to sleep. He walked through this dark flat with the familiarity of someone who had done it several times. His wife insisted he not turn the lights on in the flat when he came home late from a shift. Even though she would be asleep in the bedroom with door closed, she didn’t want to be disturbed by the light shining in under the door.

Greg walked two more steps towards the couch and then hit his lower leg on something hard and pointed.

“Bollocks,” he hissed as he reached down to rub his leg.

He placed his hand out and found his coffee table. It had been moved about six inches over from where it was supposed to be.

Adrenaline pulsed through Lestrade’s veins. He stood up straight and strained to see in the darken room. He couldn’t see anyone, but he felt the sensation of someone else being in his flat. The hairs stood on the back of his neck and not for the first time, he wished he had been issued a firearm.

There was click and the room was suddenly lit as Sherlock turned on the table lamp beside him.

“Your coffee table was not centered on the couch. I moved it.” Sherlock said.

“I like to put my feet up on while I watch telly.”

Greg blinked his eyes. He recognized Sherlock Holmes and John Watson immediately. He just didn’t know why they were sitting in his living room at eleven o’clock at night.

“You broke in here?” Was the only thing that Greg could think to say.

“Obviously.” Sherlock replied. “Your locks are not very reliable. It only took me thirty seconds to break in here.”

“It was two minutes.” John said. “The longest two minutes of my life.” He looked up at Greg. “Sorry about sneaking in here but we need your help.”

“I have a phone,” Greg said.

“I couldn’t leave a message. We needed to talk to you in person.” Sherlock replied.

Greg sat down on a chair and rubbed his shin again. “I heard what happened. You do need some help, but it can’t come from me.”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“Because you are being investigated. Dimmit tracked me down earlier today and asked about your connection with Trevor.” Greg said.

“We weren’t involved.” John offered.

“You need to help us find the actual killer so that idiot, Dimmit, will leave John alone.” Sherlock said.

“Not my division.” Greg said as he stood up. “Beer?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John nodded, “Ta.”

Greg went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. He pulled two beers down and twisted off their caps. Tossing the caps in the general direction of the bin, he spoke. “Dimmit is sure one of you is guilty. The guess is one of you shot Trevor and the other is alibiing the killer.”

Greg walked back into the living room and handed the beer to John, then sat down.

“How close am I to the truth?” Greg asked.

“Not very,” Sherlock said. “John and I were not together when Trevor was shot, but neither one of us shot him.”

Greg let his eyes shift back and forth between the two men. “Are you sure?”

“Positively,” Sherlock said.

“What about the fight between you and Trevor – at the club?” Greg asked John.

“I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think it was a set up by Trevor. Somehow he knew I knew Wilderbrant. He came in there to flaunt that they were dating. I made a point of telling Wilderbrant that Trevor was dangerous, and he came at me with a beer bottle.”

“Why would he do that?” Greg asked.

“He was cruel and petty. He like to retaliate against anyone he perceived had wronged him. Regardless if it was true or not. John stood up to him. John convinced me to leave him. He hated John and would do anything to get John into trouble.” Sherlock explained.

Greg took a long swallow of beer. “Well, he didn’t commit suicide if that is what you’re trying to claim.”

“No, Victor wouldn’t be that considerate.” Sherlock said.

“Okay you tell me what you think happened.” Greg said.

“I don’t know. I don’t have enough information. I need information before I can make a deduction.” Sherlock rattled.

“I’m not walking you into the homicide division of the Met and let you look over all the evidence. I can’t even do that.” Greg said.

“No, but you can take us to your office and let us have access to the computer. We can look at the evidence logged into the computer system and I will be able to discover who the real criminal is.” Sherlock said.

“Not going to happen.” Greg said as he took another swig of beer. “Besides, I’m supposed to working on an art theft. I can’t be giving civilians tours of my department.”

“Which art theft?” Sherlock asked.

“The Holbart Gallery. The painting by Christoph.”

“Obvious, it was an inside job. Boring.” Sherlock said waving his hand to dismiss the case.

“WHAT!? Obvious? Not to me! Not to anyone else!” Greg leaned forward in his chair.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. “If I help you solve that case will you get me access to the evidence in Trevor’s murder?”

Greg studied Sherlock to see if the man was trying to trick him. “Like last time?”

“Take me to the gallery and let me look over the evidence. Then I will tell you who did it. Afterwards, you let me see the evidence they have in Victor’s death.”

Greg took another sip of beer. He was completely stuck on the art theft. He had no leads and no possibility of solving the case until he got one. If Sherlock could tweeze out one single thread, then maybe – just maybe, he could solve the crime and get to move on to harder more intriguing cases.

Greg shook his head. He knew it was a bad idea.

“Not going to happen.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re being stupid.”

“No, I’m protecting my career.” Greg stood up and walked over to a box he had carried in. “I’m not supposed to have this here. And if anyone asks, you’ve never seen it.”

He picked up the box and brought to the table and set it down. John and Sherlock peered over the edge and the contents.

There were files and typewritten reports. Several color and black and white photos were evident too. Sherlock greedily grabbed at the photos and laid them out across the table. Then he flipped through the files until he found a diagram of the gallery. The location of the various paintings and sculptures and where the guests were. He read through the reports and tossed the papers aside when he was done.

Greg and John glanced back and forth between Sherlock and themselves. Greg finished his beer and held the bottle up towards John.

“Another?”

“Probably shouldn’t, haven’t eaten today.” John said as his stomach growled.

“I’ll order a pizza.” Greg offered.

“That would be great. Thanks.”

John turned back and looked at Sherlock. The dark-haired man was fixed on a photograph of a sculpture that looked like globs of melted metal. It was two and half feet tall and about three feet long. It stood on a flat white base almost nine and half feet long, a foot wide and three and half feet tall.

He held the photo up for Greg to see. “Who is the artist?”

Greg paused and squinted to see the photo. “Christoph.”

“I thought he only did paintings.” John said.

“Yeah, mostly, but he had that one sculpture at the gallery. If you want to call it art. It looks like something my kids did with mud-pies.” Greg pulled out his mobile and dialed up the local pizzeria.

“It was the only sculpture he made there.” Greg said as retrieved another bottle of beer. “Stupid looking thing that had lights in the base that changed colors.”

“And it was next to the painting that was stolen?”

“Christoph insisted. The gallery owner complied.” Greg said as took his seat again.

“The exhibit was in the back of the gallery?”

“Yes, there was a wall between the exhibits and the glass front of the gallery. But the doorway was huge. You could see from the back of the room to the front.”

Sherlock looked at the photos carefully again. “You said there are lights inside the base? So the base can be opened up.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Greg looked concerned.

“Were the kids caught who broke the window?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“And no one noticed the painting was gone until after the guards and kids ran down the street?”

John leaned forward in his chair. He knew Sherlock had picked up on something. He waited anxiously to hear Sherlock’s deductions.

Confused, Greg repeated the story. “Yeah. The reception was going on when the first brick went through the window. People turned to see what had happened. They threw a second brick and broke another window. That’s when the security guards ran forward and tried to stop them. The kids grabbed two paintings and ran. Half a block from the place, the guards found the paintings laying in the street. But no kids. We only have a rough identification. Young, dark-skinned. Jeans, hoodies, trainers. One had a scruffy beard. They were wearing cotton gloves so no fingerprints.”

“Cotton gloves?” Sherlock smiled.

Confused by Sherlock’s comment, Greg continued. “By the time everyone turned around, the painting was gone. The police had already been called because of the ‘smash and grab’. We get there and we have a eighty-five-thousand-pound painting missing. No signs of how the thief could have gotten it out of the building. The guests were blocking the front door and the back door was locked.”

“Was there an alarm system?” Sherlock asked.

“One of the best. Insurance company insisted on it. It would go off if someone took a painting down off the walls. It was blaring because the windows got broken. The owner of the gallery went and turned it off before we arrived.”

“So if it was already going off, then removing the painting from the wall wouldn’t trigger it?”

Greg looked at Sherlock when realization set in. “Oh . . .” Greg’s dark brown eyebrows traveled up into his fringe.

“WHAT?!” John asked.

“The ‘smash and rob’ was a diversion. The kids were working with the thief.” Greg said.

“It was planned out perfectly. And had been planned for months.” Sherlock smiled as he picked up the photo of the sculpture again. “Has anyone been allowed into the crime scene since the theft?”

“Just insurance adjusters and the owner.” Greg said.

“Check the base of the sculpture. If it’s not there, then the owner is involved.”

Greg blinked. “But . . . why?”

“WHO?!” Shouted John.

“Christoph. He is the thief. He planned the whole thing months ago. Why did he have such a massive base built for his sculpture? It’s built to fit the size of the painting and not the size of the sculpture. He waited until his accomplices broke the windows. They grabbed what ever they could. They wore cotton gloves. Cotton gloves like art restorers use. They wore them not because they didn’t want to leave fingerprints, but because they didn’t want to damage the paintings. They left the painting where they would be quickly found and undamaged. While everyone is watching the ‘smash and grab’ and the alarms are going off and everyone’s attention is towards the front of the gallery, Christoph simply removes the painting from the wall and slips it into the base of the sculpture. Closes it up and joins the crowd at the front of the gallery. Meer seconds.”

“But why?” Greg askes again. “Why steal from yourself?!”

“There’s the insurance of course, but I think it is even more creative. Deception.” Sherlock smiles.

“What?” John asked.

“A very expensive painting is stolen in a very public and spectacular way. To some collectors, that would increase the value of the painting. Remember, no one thought much of the Mona Lisa until it was stolen. Now it is considered priceless. Christoph steals his own painting then sells it on the black market for twice it’s insured value.” Sherlock explains.

“Brilliant.” John whispers.

“Yes, he is.”

“I meant you.” John whispers.

Sherlock glances at John then blushed slightly. “But there is another option.”

“Yeah?” Greg is now leaning forward.

“Christoph painted the stolen painting. It is an original Christoph. What is going to stop him from selling several copies of the stolen paintings. Technically, they too, would be original Christoph’s. And the buyers really couldn’t complain. They couldn’t sue, because they are buying what they think is a stolen piece of art. They are receiving stolen goods, so if they figure out they have been conned, they can’t get their money back. Christoph steals his own painting and sells multiple copies of it to unscrupulous buyers and is guilty of nothing at all.”

“WHAT?! NO!” Greg shouted.

“Well, nothing but insurance fraud and filing a false police report. With the return of the painting, the insurance companies will probably drop the fraud claim.”

“A false police report!” Greg collapsed back into the chair. “After all the hours I’ve spent on this case and all the crap I’ve had to take, he’ll only get a slap on the wrist! No way, I’ll figure out some way of putting him in jail for the rest of his life.”

Sherlock smiled at John who returned the smile.

“Alright, I’ve solved your case. Will you get us the evidence on Victor’s murder?”

“I can’t. I told you I can’t.” Greg said still laying back in the chair, furious at the artist.

“I need that information.” Sherlock pleaded.

“I can’t. You’re not even a detective.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I believe I’ve proved I’m one.” 


	13. This Could be so Different

This Could be so Different

John sat nervously in the interrogation room. His leg shook, tapping rapidly against the hard floor. His mouth was dry. He glanced around the room. The glass in the window was frosted, letting in pale grey light from outside. There wasn’t a mirror but John was certain there were cameras somewhere in there. The wall was supposed to be painted white, but years of abuse had left them dingy and marked. John smelled something that reminded him of his childhood, sweat and fear.

He had just left his morning lectures when Dimmit and a constable had walked up to him.

“You need to come with us,” Dimmit had said loud enough for the other students to hear.

Several heads turned and watched as John was led away by the police officers. John could hear the whispers and see fingers being pointed. He felt his medical career vanishing in smoke and blue uniforms.

Dimmit had brought him to the Met and took away his wallet and phone. He put John into the interrogation room then left; saying he would return shortly. John wasn’t sure how long he had been waiting, but he was sure it was over half an hour. He shifted in the hard chair for the ‘umpteenth’ time. He was beginning to panic.

When the door finally opened, John near jumped out of skin. He looked up at Dimmit. The man had a smile on his face. He sat down opposite John. He laid out several folders in front of himself but had them turned where John couldn’t read the labels.

“Alright, John, I have the evidence I need now. Do you still insist that you and Sherlock were together all that day?”

John felt his mouth go dry. He wondered what evidence Dimmit could have. _It had to prove that Sherlock was murderer. How could he prove that Sherlock was guilty?_ He thought. John was willing to do anything for Sherlock, he just needed to know what to say.

“It wasn’t all day.”

Dimmit leaned forward in his chair, expectantly. “Yes?”

John tried to swallow. His mouth was dry and he wished he had some water.

“I was in lectures in the morning. We met up after class and went for a walk then back to the flat afterwards and we were together for the rest of the day.”

Dimmit frowned. “You never left the flat?”

John hands were shaking. His thumbs nervously tapped the tabletop. He pulled his hands into his lap, trying to control them. He tried to remember what Sherlock had said the day before.

“No, neither one of us left.”

“I know that’s a lie.” Dimmit snapped back. John paled.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Dimmit growled as the door opened. A PC poked his head into the room and spoke.

“Gov, the boy’s solicitor is here.”

“Tell him to wait!” Dimmit shouted.

John was confused. He didn’t have a solicitor. He hadn’t asked for one. He realized that was a mistake now. He shouldn’t be talking to the police detective without one.

The PC was brushed aside and Mycroft Holmes opened the door further and entered the room.

“I believe I shall wait in here with my client.” Mycroft said as he walked in and sat down beside John.

Confused, John remained silent as his eyes fixed on Mycroft’s relaxed expression.

“You aren’t needed here. John isn’t under arrest.”

“I’m not?” John asked surprised.

Mycroft let a small curl come to his lips. “Did you inform my client he didn’t need to speak to you if he didn’t want to?”

Dimmit said “Yes” the same time John said “No.”

Mycroft sighed and reached down to pick up his briefcase. “I see. Detective Inspector Dimmit, you are aware that you are required to caution Mister Watson before questioning him and allow him time to contact his legal representation.”

“He’s not under arrest.” Dimmit repeated.

“Did you caution him?” Mycroft asked ignoring Dimmit’s explanation.

“No,” John said.

Mycroft tutted softly.

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but Watson didn’t call you. I know the for a fact.” Dimmit raised his voice.

“No, you prohibited him from doing so. Another failure of yours that we will be bringing to your superiors.” Mycroft opened his briefcase and removed a file. He opened the file and handed over several photographs to Dimmit.

“What’s this?” Dimmit asked.

“These are CCTV photographs of a man entering and leaving building where Victor Trevor was shot. You will notice the time stamp on the bottom of the photo. They were taken within the time frame of when the forensic pathologist had place Victor’s death. You also notice that the man in the photo does not resemble John Watson or Sherlock Holmes in any matter whatsoever.”

Dimmit looked at the photos. It was the front door of the building and the pavement. A tall man with blonde had was walking out of the door. In the next photo, the man’s face was more visible. He was older than John. Taller and broader in the shoulders. He wore a bulky dark green canvas coat and a black ball cap. He was putting on a pair of yellow tinted glasses. The next photo was the man walking away from the door.

“Where did you get theses? They could be faked.”

“They were not. And as to their authenticity,” Mycroft opened the file and removed a CD and handed it to Dimmit. “This is a copy of the entire day from that specific CCTV camera. You may check it out with other CCTV recordings. That is your killer. He is not Mister Watson or Mister Holmes. I believe that will conclude their involvement in your inquiries.”

“Not by half!” Dimmit shouted. “I still don’t know how you knew he was here. Who are you?”

“I have already told you. And I assure you that any further harassment of my clients will cost you your position within Scotland Yard.” Mycroft stood up. “Come along, John. Sherlock is waiting for you.”

Dumbfound, John stood and walked out of the interrogation room. Just outside the door, Mycroft stopped and talked to older man in a uniform with numerous ribbons. He was a good six inches shorter than Mycroft and twice as round. He looked like a well decorated barrel.

“Deputy commissioner, good morning. I’m sorry to bother you with this.” Mycroft shook the man’s hand.

“Not at all, Mister Holmes,” The small pudgy man said. He glanced over at Dimmit and scowled. “I’m aware that certain _junior_ officers have over stepped.” The word junior was emphasized.

John glanced back at Dimmit and saw the man pale. Mycroft turned to walk out and John rushed to keep up with him.

“Was that really a picture of who murdered Victor?” John asked.

“More than likely,” Mycroft said as he stepped into a lift.

John followed him. “Did Sherlock call you?”

“Yes, apparently one of your fellow medical students notified him that you had been detained by the police.”

“And you just happened to have those photos available to you?”

Mycroft glanced at John with a raised eyebrow. John realized there were certain questions Mycroft was not going to answer.

“So who is the man in the photo?”

“Facial recognition is not as accurate as the movies would make you think it is.” Mycroft pressed the button for the ground floor.

John turned and watched the numbers descend above their heads. The door opened and two men stepped out of the lift.

Sherlock was franticly pacing in the lobby of the building. His dark coat billowing out behind him. His dark curls even messier than normal by his frequent hair tugs. As soon as he saw John, he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around the young man.

“Jawn,” his voice took on a French accent as he enveloped John in his arms. The two men hugged each other ignoring the glances from passersby.

“We’re okay,” John whispered as he nudged Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. “Is it over?”

“It is for you and John. I believe it isn’t for Sergeant Dimmit.”

“You mean Inspector Dimmit, don’t you?” John asked.

“Not after today.” Mycroft smiled. He started to walk away from the two men.

“The man was marksman,” John said out loud to Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft paused and turned around. He looked quizzically at John. “What makes you say that?”

“The glasses he was wearing. Those funny yellow lenses - they are shooting glasses. For people who do a lot of target practice.”

Mycroft’s eyes shifted to the side as he listened to John. It was something he didn’t know. Then he nodded slightly to John.

“Thank you, John. That is very interesting.” Mycroft turned to leave.

Sherlock and John watched him go.

“Mark that into your diary, John. Mycroft was not only helpful for once but actually said thank you.”

John smiled at his friend and said. “Just get me the hell out of here.”

“With pleasure.”

~221~

The taxi ride back to the flat had been quiet. Neither man willing to break the silence. Neither looking directly at each other. When they got out of the cab, they walked into the flat and collapsed on the chairs, exhausted by the events of the day. Sherlock sat in his favorite chair with his head tipped back over the cushion. His long legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes closed and his face laxed.

John watched him for several seconds, silently. Studying the lines and plains of that face.

“Shut up. You’re make too much noise.” Sherlock moaned while keeping his eyes closed.

“I haven’t said a word,” replied John.

“You’re think. It’s loud and annoying.”

“You criticizes me for not thinking.”

“I criticizes you for not using your brain to its complete capacity. And for wasting time thinking about things that are unimportant.” Sherlock corrected.

John propped his head onto his hand as he rested his elbow on the arm of the chair. He continued to stare at Sherlock.

“So what am I thinking about that you think is a waste of time?” he asked.

“The photograph.”

John waited but Sherlock didn’t say anything else.

“Continue, Mister Know-it-all.”

“You are thinking that Mycroft faked the photograph. That he manipulated the CCTV tapes and came up with a probable suspect to divert suspension from us.” Sherlock said with his eyes still shut and his body stretched out over the chair.

“Not us, Sherlock.” John said softly.

Sherlock lifted his head and stared at John. He quickly shifted and sat up in the chair.

“You think he would make up a suspect to protect me?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, I do.”

Sherlock though for a moment then shook his head. “Plausible except for one important point.”

“What?” John asked.

“I didn’t do it.”

John never did specifically ask Sherlock if he had murdered Victor. And it wasn’t until they were alone did the idea truly take root.

“You told Dimmit we were together. Why did you lie? Why did you need an alibi?”

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, then glanced away shrugging his elegant shoulders. He crossed his long legs and carefully placed his hands in his lap.

“I told him we were together because it was obvious that you needed an alibi. I was here at the flat all day. If need be, I could prove it but I couldn’t prove where you were. I couldn’t let Dimmit trick you into making a confession to something I know you didn’t do.”

John looked surprised. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to confess to something I didn’t do?”

“I think Dimmit would trick you up and you being naïve enough to trust him would say something that would cause you great harm.” Sherlock said. “You already admitted to him that you hated Victor and you wanted him punished.”

“I meant arrested.” John said.

“That is not how it sounded when you said it to him.” Sherlock explained.

“So you lied to protect me and not yourself? You think you have some way of proving you were here in the flat?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John think. If Mycroft has access to every CCTV camera in London, don’t you think he would have access to cameras that are not visible or legal.”

John frowned as he thought about what Sherlock had just said. Suddenly, his bright blue eyes grew larger.

“Are you saying that he put cameras here in the flat?”

Sherlock simply smirked at John.

“OH MY GOD! Sherlock we’ve had sex in nearly every room!”

“No, John, we have had sex in every room and I’m certain Mycroft has video proof of that.”

John blushed deeply. He quickly looked around the room.

“I want them out!” John shouted.

“I remove them every few weeks but they keep reappearing.”

“Why didn’t Mycroft give Dimmit the proof we weren’t together?” asked John.

Sherlock glanced away from his friend. “Because I asked him to not.”

John looked at Sherlock for several moments. “You asked him even before you knew of the other man? Why?”

“I knew you weren’t involved with his murder. You hated Victor, but you wouldn’t have killed him. I knew John, you aren’t a murderer.”

John sat silently and watched Sherlock. He smiled softly.

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled and tipped his head back over the chair cushion.

“How about some tea?”


	14. I Know I Can Treat You Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't handle John leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little smut towards the end of this chapter. Please skip the second to the last portion if not your cup of tea.

I Know I Can Treat You Better

After John’s interview with Dimmit and the Mycroft presenting the photograph of the suspected killer, things seemed to calm down. The two men fell into a comfortable routine. John returned to working a Frankie’s Backdoor dance club and going to classes during the day. Sherlock did his crazy experiments in the flat and hung out in the chemistry labs at Bart’s.

Nothing more was said about Victor Trevor. His murder slipped from the pages of the newspapers and off the evening news and disappeared from people’s interest. Wilderbrant regained consciousness and was released from hospital. He admitted it was Victor who attacked him and then left Uni and his position as the student manager of John’s team.

The fall turned into spring and was quickly followed by summer. John was out of classes now and simply spent his days with Sherlock.

John was happy. He was finally happy. And it felt wonderful. Then the letter came.

~221~

John was washing dishes in the kitchen and humming contentedly to himself. Classes were over. He had finished up with very good grades, including the second highest grade in Chemistry. He didn’t have a shift at the dance club that night and he was looking forward to a whole evening alone with Sherlock. Sherlock had forced Mycroft to remove the cameras in the flat. John shifted his weight back and forth on his bare feet, as if he were dancing slightly, thinking of all the things he and Sherlock could get up to, if left to their own imagination.

John had just finished rinsing out the last glass when Sherlock stepped into the room.

“John, what is this?”

John twisted and looked over at his friend. “What’s what?”

“This letter?”

John squinted to see what was written on the envelope that Sherlock was waving in his hand. He could barely read the typed writing but he did see the insignia of the RMAC.

“Oh!” John grabbed a dish towel and dried his hands. “That must be my orders to report.”

He took a step forward and held out his hand, but Sherlock pulled the letter back further from John’s reach.

“Orders to report? But why?”

John sighed and tipped his head slightly to the side. “We both knew this was going to happen. I need to finish my training.”

“No, John. I won’t let you.” Sherlock said as he turned away from John. His heart beginning to pound hard in his chest. He tore the letter up as he took three long strides away from John.

“SHERLOCK! STOP!” John shouted as he rushed after Sherlock. “Why the hell did you do that? Now I’ve got to call them and tell them to mail out another set.”

“No, John I won’t let you. You don’t need to leave.” Sherlock said as he tossed the torn bits of paper into the bin.

John bent down, reaching for the scraps when Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and held him back.

“Sherlock don’t push me on this. I’m going. I’m going to be an army surgeon.”

“No!” Sherlock said imperiously. He started shaking with anger and fear.

“What is your problem? DO you honestly think you get to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

“I don’t want you to go.” Sherlock said

“Well, this time it’s not about you. It’s about my training. The army will help me become a surgeon. And will pay me to do so. You just need to get over yourself.”

“But, John, we’re happy. We’re happy together. Why does it have to change? Why do you have to go away?”

“Because I can’t pay for my clinical rotation. I’m barely making ends meet now. Besides, it won’t be forever.”

“Yes it will!”

“Sherlock, I can’t afford my clinical rotations.”

“I’ll make up the difference.” Sherlock quickly offered.

“NO!” John snapped. “You won’t keep me.”

“But John . . .”

“No, Sherlock. I have my pride.”

“And your pride is more important than us? Than me?”

John took in a long nasally breathe and slowly released it. He closed his eyes and seemed to be regaining control of himself.

“Sherlock, please try to understand. I need to do this myself. I need to be able to prove not just to you and others, but to myself I can do this. It’s important to me.”

“John, I have a trust fund.”

“I know and I know you have already spent some of it on me. I love that you care about me but you can’t expect me to want to be indebted to you. To be a leach.”

“John, I won’t be able to . . .”

John softened his expression. “Sherlock, please understand. It is important for me to standup for myself. When I had to leave home, it was my sister who took care of me. Then she left and you’ve been taking care me. Now it’s time for me to take care of myself. For me to prove I can. I need this. I need to be able hold my head up .”

“That’s ridiculous. You’ll be gone and I’ll be . . .”

“It’s three months of basic training, and then I’ll be home for a few weeks before I’m sent off to an army hospital for the rest of my medical training. Then, depending on where I’m station, we will see each other as often as we can. Maybe every day if I get stationed somewhere here.”

“IF – IF – IF! You don’t know how much I hate that bloody word. IF! No, you will stay here. We’ll figure out some way of paying for your education that doesn’t get you shot at. And to hell with your stupid pride, John Watson!”

John didn’t say a word. The room became uncomfortably silent. John glared at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back.

“John . . .”

“No, Sherlock. Don’t say anything else.” John grabbed his phone and walked out of the flat.

Sherlock started to follow but John slammed the door in Sherlock’s face. It sounded like a gunshot. Loud and sharp. Sherlock went to the window and watched as John crossed the street below and marched off down the pavement. He wondered how long John would be gone this time. He needed to think. He needed to figure out a way to convince John to give up this ridiculous idea of joining the army.

Sherlock went over to the small Persian slipper that sat on the shelf. He pulled the lining back and removed the small vial inside. A seven percent solution. ‘ _Just a small dose’_ , he thought. Sherlock would let the cocaine help him think.

~221~

Sherlock was deep in his ‘Mind Palace.’ In the very special room. A room with a dark blue door. The same shade of blue as John’s eyes. Warm and dark like the Mediterranean Sea. Sherlock wanted to plunge into those dark blue orbs and swim until he was exhausted. He wanted John.

He opened the door and went inside were the moments and recollections of John belonged. Framed snapshots of memories. The first time he met John with Mike. The first kiss John had given him. The sunlight in John’s hair as he played rugby. Their first time on the couch together. John’s playfulness as he forced Sherlock to do something he didn’t want to do. How John looked when he first breached Sherlock’s body with his length. John sleeping in his arms. All the precious memories were there. All waiting for Sherlock to go in and relive them.

The sound of the waterpipes knocking brought Sherlock out of Mind Palace. The shower in the bathroom was running. Sherlock blinked and looked around the flat.

 _‘John must be back’_ , he thought. _‘He’ll still be angry. I must fix this.’_

Sherlock stood up and went to the bathroom door. He could hear the shift in sound as John stepped into the shower after the water had finally warmed up. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and toed off his shoes and socks. When he opened the bathroom door, he was naked. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled the shower curtain back and stepped into the hot water with John.

John’s hand was braced against the tile wall. He was leaning forward with his head down. The water was splashing on his neck and down his back. He twitched slightly as he felt the coolness of Sherlock’s body step closer to his.

“I don’t want to fight any more, Sherlock.” John said, his head still bowed. His eyes closed.

“Neither do I.” It was a deep rumble. Sherlock was scared. He needed to fix this but he wasn’t sure how he could. He needed to John to stay. If he left, then Sherlock would be alone again. He didn’t want to be alone. It hurt too much.

Sherlock stepped closer and lightly rested his palms on John’s shoulders. He felt John tense for a second then relax. John lifted his head and stood up straight. Sherlock moved closer and rested his forehead on the back of John’s head. Sherlock took a deep breathe. Savoring the scent of John. Wanting to remember this moment with all of his senses.

“I’m sorry we fought, John. I don’t like fighting with you.” Sherlock whispered.

John didn’t immediately reply and Sherlock thought his words were lost under the sound of the shower. Then John said softly back, “me too.”

Sherlock let his hands move down John’s back and around to his front. With is palms spread wide, Sherlock pulled John back into his body.

“I don’t want to fight again.”

“Neither do I, but . . .” John sagged in Sherlock’s embrace. He tipped his head back and rested it on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You went and got new papers.” Sherlock said softly in John’s ear.

“The orders were messed up. I was supposed to have gotten them weeks ago.” John said. His eyes still closed as the water splashed across their faces.

“Oh – are you in trouble?”

“No, but I have to leave sooner than I thought.”

“How soon?” Sherlock dreaded the answer. His stomach twisted.

“Next week.” John said.

The two simple words were daggers to Sherlock. They stung and brought tears to his eyes. Sherlock squeezed John tighter to his body. He thought if he held the young man tight enough, then his heart might not break.

“I need you.” The words felt inadequate to his meaning. He needed words that would truly express how desperate Sherlock was. “I can’t . . .”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I know.” John softly said.

_‘How could it be alright? What was John talking about? It would never be alright!’_

“John, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I can’t.”

“Okay.” John shifted to pull himself out of Sherlock’s embrace, but the dark-haired boy refused to let go.

“I need . . . I need you. Just for tonight, can we forget about everything and be just us. I need to. I need to touch you.”

John leaned back into Sherlock’s arms. “I’m right here, Sherlock.”

It was a good thing they were still in the shower. John couldn’t see the tears edging down Sherlock’s face.

~221~

The week passed quickly. John spent most of his time filling out paperwork at the recruitment office. He went through a second physical and an additional interview to insure he knew what he was getting into. John was excited. It was going to be an adventure to him. He was looking forward to basic training almost as much as starting his clinical rotations in surgery.

Sherlock was not as happy. When John was busy with the army, Sherlock found himself spending more time walking the streets of London. He had purchased another vial of 7% solution of cocaine from Frankie. He carefully injected himself in his ankles where John wouldn’t notice the bruises. If he did, Sherlock could claim he had barked his shins on something. Sherlock’s hands had begun to shake and he was no longer eating.

“Sherlock, I don’t want you getting sick while I’m away. You need to eat better than this.” John criticized after Sherlock had refused to eat any dinner one night.

“Eating takes energy away from thinking.” Sherlock mused, trying to ignore the comment about John being ‘away’.

At night, Sherlock spent hours passionately making love to John. Imprinting himself on every inch of John’s body.

Their final night together, Sherlock laid with his back against the headboard as John slowly rode him. Sherlock’s fingers gliding up the sweaty skin of John’s thighs. Contentment and pleasure etched into John’s features.

“Sherlock, you feel so good inside me. I love this.” John moaned.

He placed his hands on Sherlock’s chest as he sped up his movements. His fingertips noticed the rapid beat of Sherlock’s heart. John opened his eyes and looked into Sherlock’s face.

“I love you.” John whispered. He leaned forwards and kissed Sherlock’s parted lips. “I will always love you. Only you.”

“Jawn” Sherlock gasped.

He grabbed John around the waist and twisted. He flipped John onto the mattress and re-entered him before John could complain. Sherlock took control. He wanted to possess John. To reach inside and become one with him. Sherlock thrusts became rapid and hard. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s body, opening himself up. Sherlock curved his upper body over John’s, covering and coveting him.

John could feel the wave coming. The drawing out of his breath and the crashing of pleasure. Sherlock kept at him. Pushing him onward until John couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Sherlock!” John shouted as he climaxed. His vision burring and his ears ringing. He felt light and euphoric. He was glad Sherlock was holding him down because he was certain he would have floated away if he weren’t held.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you.” John panted.

Sherlock was shivering, and John thought it was because of his climax, then he realized, Sherlock was crying.

“No, love, please don’t. No, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I love you, John.”

“That’s nothing to cry about.” John purred, wrapping his arms tighter around Sherlock. “It’s just a few months, and then you’ll see. It will alright.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered so softly John didn’t hear him.

~221~

The next day, Sherlock accompanied John to King’s Cross train station. John stood nervously in his new uniform. He kept glancing at the tote board listing the train times.

“I can’t call you for a couple of weeks but I’ll write often.” John said, without looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock hummed softly in answer. A train pulled into the station and people stated to get off it.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” John said. He glanced around the platform and saw other soldiers walking towards the newly arrived train. “It will be fine.”

John finally turned and looked at Sherlock. “I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes. “I will miss you, John.”

“You can’t say you love me too?” John teased.

“I love you more than my life. With you gone, I won’t have a life.” Sherlock said soberly.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” John smiled. He quickly leaned forward and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “Three months. That’s all.”

John turned and quickly rushed towards the train. Doors were being slammed shut and the whistle blew to announce it was about to leave.

Sherlock watched. “Three months and then the rest of your life, John.” The train started to pull out of the station. “Goodbye.”

Sherlock returned to the flat. He didn’t remove his coat. He just looked around at their things. There was a framed photograph of the two of them. They were sitting at a table together. John was looking out to right, off into the distance. Sherlock was sitting on his left and had his hand on John’s shoulder. The look on Sherlock’s face was nothing but pure adoration for the blond man. Sherlock’s silver eyes shone out brightly how much he cared for John. How much he loved him.

Sherlock smacked the picture frame on the edge of the table. The glass broke and the frame bent. He pulled the photograph out of the debris and held it up to look at it again. Then he slipped it into his coat pocket. He pulled out his phone and key and dropped them on the floor. He walked out of the flat and into the world. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of the first portion of this story. The second part begins next week. There will be a lot of pain and suffering. John in the army and Sherlock disappearing into the world of drugs.


	15. You Lost the Love I Loved the Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life in the army and Sherlock's life without John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start of part two of John and Sherlock's story. The song is Jar of Hearts

You Lost the Love I Loved the Most

The military base was just outside of Harrogate in Yorkshire. Having spent most of his life in the area surrounding London, the terrain of the base was rougher than anything John had ever seen before. There was clean air and lots of hard work. The mornings were spent on five-mile runs. At first they were just in shorts and t-shirts. Then they were expected to run with rucksacks on their backs and combat boots. There were early morning calisthenics and obstacle courses. John’s years of rugby had been good preparation for physical demand. He easily kept up with the seasoned soldiers. It felt good. John was thriving in it.

Afternoons, John learned about military history, defense and regulations. He became proficient with map reading and a compass. Something he never needed in London. John learned about famous battles and military tactics. He smiled wondering if he would ever need any of this training once he was in the operating room. He treated it like a retreat from medical training. A sabbatical.

Most of the other recruits dismissed John because of his height. They thought he would be a push over. The first day of hand to hand combat training convinced them otherwise. John would smile slightly and wink. It would generally confuse his opponent and then they would charge him. Using techniques he learned in rugby, he dodged they attacks and using his agility and strength he easily knocked them off their feet. The other soldiers quickly learned to not underestimate the short doctor.

The first day of small arms training was terrifying for John. He had never held a gun in his life let alone fired one. Initially hesitant, he picked the rifle up and followed the drill sergeant orders. When ordered to fire, John aim the rifle at the target forty yards down range and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in his hands but he held tight and fired again as the drill sergeant called out. When they had fired the rifles five times, the scores were posted above the targets. John had two hits in the second to the smallest ring and three in the smallest ring.

The drill sergeant came over and looked at the score then looked at John.

“Watson are you a hunter?” the tall broad-shouldered man asked.

“No.” John said remembering to not add sir.

“Some kind of target shooter?”

“No.”

The drill sergeant glanced sideways at John then told the men to reload. He stood behind John and watched the young man fumble as he slipped the cartridges into the magazine, then push the magazine into the gun.

“Ready on the line . . .” The drill sergeant shouted. “Live fire . . . Three, two, one. Fire!”

The men fired once.

John pulled the butt of the gun tight to his shoulder and rested his cheek on the stock. He placed the sight on the center circle of the target. Then fired.

“Fire!” The drill sergeant shouted.

John fired again.

“Lean forward as you pull the trigger. Don’t let it push you backwards. Hold your stance.” John could hear the man even through his hearing protection earphones. John did what he was told.

After five shots, John’s score was one hit in the smallest ring and four bullseyes.

John quickly learned he enjoyed shooting. After several weeks of training he received marksmen scores with a rifle and excellent scores with a sidearm.

“Fuck’n waste you being RAMC, Watson. You’d make one fine infantrymen.” John’s drill sergeant said when he saw John’s scores. “Maybe even the sniper division or commando’s if you worked on it.”

John nodded his head and smiled at the man.

He finally felt like he was where he should be. He knew he always wanted to be with Sherlock, but there was that nagging little voice in his head that kept telling him he wasn’t good enough to be with the young man. It was the same nagging voice he heard every time he had to go and talk to a professor at school. The feeling he was an impostor who was faking at being a student with every condescending glance. Here in the army that nagging voice disappeared.

It was hard work but John was up for it. He knew he could do it. He knew he was strong enough and brave enough and no one could stop him. He finally felt good about himself.

Every night, before ‘lights out’, John would try and jot a few lines down to Sherlock. He hadn’t a chance to sit down and write out a full letter to Sherlock for the first two weeks. But what could he say? He missed Sherlock but he was having the time of his life. He finally found somewhere where he felt he belonged. That would be the last thing Sherlock would want to read.

John would lay in his bunk in the dark and think about Sherlock. He wondered what the crazy genius was up too. He wondered if Sherlock had successfully stolen a body part from the morgue now that John wasn’t there to stop him. Or had Sherlock finally run out of clean clothes since John was there to wash them for the man. The thought of Sherlock wandering around the flat in a bedsheet made John smile and long for Sherlock even more. Then he wondered if Sherlock missed him. Was Sherlock lonely? What would a lonely, bored Sherlock get up to?

John promised himself to write a letter the next day. It was just a few lines. How much John enjoyed shooting and how much he hated the food. He wrote about the morning runs that started in the dark and finished just as the sun had moved above the horizon. He wrote how much he missed Sherlock and hoped Sherlock was taking care of himself. He quickly ended the letter before he started to gush and write down how badly he wanted to be with Sherlock and how much he wanted to wake up next to the man. He sealed the letter and made sure it was in the afternoon mail bag.

At lunch there was an abbreviated mail call. Very few of the new recruits received traditional mail, but those who did were envied. John never expected to receive anything. He didn’t believe Sherlock was the type to actually sit down and compose a letter. He was finishing his lunch when the corporal walked by and handed him a letter.

“Watson.”

He tore the paper and opened the letter. He recognized the scrawled handwriting of his sister immediately.

_“Johnny,_

_Thanks for telling me where the fuck you went. I had to wait for a letter to your slag boyfriend to find out where you went. The leasing agent for our flat called me. He told me you took off weeks ago and left without telling anyone. The least you could have done was empty the frig. I had to deal with everything. Pack your things and clean the flat. I don’t have the money for this. You fucking owe me. I could only take what could fit in my car. Your stuff is in the boot. If you don’t tell me what you want to do with it, I’m selling it._

_Harry.”_

John panicked. _Where was Sherlock? Why wasn’t he at the flat? Had something happened to him?_

John went to his drill sergeant. “I know I’m not supposed to call anyone, but there is an emergency.”

“What is it?” Sergeant Morelly asked. The older soldier had heard numerous excuses from recruits to call home. Most were just homesickness.

“Ah . . .” John hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much he should tell Morelly. Mostly because he didn’t know himself. If he said his boyfriend had disappeared and it turned out Sherlock was just off doing some kind of experiment and everything was fine then John would look like an idiot to the sergeant.

“My sister said there is a problem with at my flat. A robbery. I need to call and check.” John lied.

Morelly could see the anxiety in the man’s face. He liked Watson. The young recruit worked hard and never flinched at any duty. Morelly thought for a moment then frowned. He was breaking regulations.

“You can call from the XO’s office before dinner. Five minutes, Watson. But you won’t be allowed to go home.”

“Yes, I understand, sergeant.” John nodded and rushed off.

John watched the clock for the rest of the afternoon. He wondered what had happened. Where could Sherlock be? Had Sherlock been in an accident or something? John remembered how Sherlock wanted to get involved with solving crimes. Maybe Sherlock had started investigating some criminal and been injured. Maybe killed. By six o’clock that evening, John was frantic.

He called Sherlock’s phone. On the second ring, it was answered.

“Hello,” the voice was clear and sharp, but not Sherlock’s. John struggled to think who was answering Sherlock’s phone.

“Mycroft?”

“John, aren’t you still Harrogate?” Mycroft asked. “You are not allowed phone privileges.”

“Where is Sherlock?”

“That is a very good question.”

“Mycroft! What’s happened?!” John was frantic.

“Sherlock has decided to leave. As per usual he became bored and didn’t wait for you. Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with your . . . sister and the landlord.” Mycroft’s disgust was apparent in his voice. “I retrieved your belongs from her and they are being placed into storage.”

“What do you mean he didn’t wait?!” John felt his world imploding.

“I think it is very clear what I mean, John. Sherlock is gone. He left. He does this when he doesn’t get his way.” Mycroft snapped. He was just as anger as John. But his anger was direct at both Sherlock and John. He was sure it was nothing more than a lover’s spat and here he was expected to be ‘mother’ to both of them.

“Was he hurt? Was there an accident?” John asked still confused and scared.

“No, John, he wasn’t hurt. He was bored. And irresponsible. He’s like that. He just took off.”

“But we had plans. He was going to be there when I got back!”

“John, I really don’t have time to explain the obvious to you. You lived with him. You know how spoiled and petty he was. Now I have to clean up his mess – again. And this time I’m expected to clean up your mess as well as Sherlock’s, but I assure you, John, this will be the last time. I’m not some ‘dustman’.”

“I don’t understand.” John said, but the line had already been disconnected.

John stared at the phone in his hand. He was confused. _Sherlock was gone. Sherlock didn’t wait_. John felt sick. He didn’t understand. He knew Sherlock didn’t want him to leave, but to walk out on him. To abandon their futures. John simply didn’t understand.

He walked out of the XO’s office. There was a burning in his chest and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Morelly saw John. The young man’s face pale and he was shaking.

“Watson what’s wrong?” Morelly asked. “Was your place robbed?”

“No,” John said. “It was burned to the ground. Nothing’s left.”

~221~

Within two hours of leaving John at the train station, Sherlock had bought two grams of cocaine from Frankie. By the second day, he had had a hit of heroin. Sherlock moved in a state of semi-consciousness. As soon as he became lucid enough to feel the pain of his separation from John, he indulged again in another chemical veil.

As the heroin slipped easily into his veins, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered and closed. He felt a warm embrace pull him deeper. He dreamed it was John’s embrace. His warm and inviting body pulling Sherlock closer. John’s breath whispered in his ear. John’s fingertips caressing his face. Sherlock dreamed.

He floated along, indifferent to the world around him as he relished the illusion he was with John. And John was safe. No one was shooting at him or hurting him. John was there listing to Sherlock. Smiling up at him in amazement. Praising him.

When the illusion ebbed and Sherlock was lucid enough to know where he was or who he was with, he went in search of another hit. Another drug. Another veil.

Sherlock roamed the city at will. He moved in and out of the shadows. Sleeping where he could. Sometimes it would be a drug lair - sometimes a doorway. He was homeless and he was fine with that. Occasionally, he would wander into places where he was known. He spent a night curled up next to heat vents of St. Bart’s, where he used to tutor. One night he found himself sneaking into the locker rooms that John’s team used.

Sherlock spent a week in the basement of the Frankie’s club. He slept on boxes stacked in the corner. He didn’t like the loud music. It made it harder for him to hear John whispering to him. Frankie tried to feed Sherlock, but the dark-haired man refused.

“Sherlock, this is stupid.” Frankie said as he tried to get Sherlock to sit up. “You can’t keep going like this. If you don’t straighten up, I’ll fig’ure out a way to tell John.”

Sherlock threw himself off the boxes and crashed into Frankie. His hands wrapped quickly around the man’s throat.

“Don’t you dare.” Sherlock hissed. “John mustn’t know.”

Frankie’s hands grasped at Sherlock’s wrist. “Okay, okay. Just – shit, pull yourself together.”

“I’m fine.” Sherlock’s hands dropped from Frankie’s neck. He stumbled backwards and collapsed into a chair.

“You’re not fine. I’ve never seen you like this. You need to straighten yourself out.” Frankie rubbed his neck. “Your brother s’been looking for you.”

Sherlock blinked and looked up at Frankie. “You didn’t tell him where I am did you?”

“No, but I’m not the only one who knows you’re here. You need to find someplace else to go.” Frankie said.

Frankie was afraid the Sherlock would finally overdose and he didn’t want the young man’s body found in his club. It would bring far too much attention to his club. And that was one thing Frankie had been warned against.

“Look, let Eddy take you home.” Frankie offered.

Sherlock blinked again. “Eddy? The waitress?”

“Yeah, she’s got a thing for you. I bet she’d even let you sleep in her bed.”

“Not interested.” Sherlock said as he struggled to stand up.

Frankie took a step backwards, fearful Sherlock would attack him again. “Well, you can’t stay here any longer. Someone will tell your nosy brother and I don’t want no trouble.”

Sherlock stumbled towards the door. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it my ambition to see you don’t get ‘no trouble’.” Sherlock sneered at the man and his grammar.

He wandered out of the dance club and disappeared into the night. Frankie reached for his phone and made the call. Now that Sherlock was out of the club, he wasn’t worried to tell someone where to find him. He wondered if he would get a reward for the information.


	16. I Learned to Live, Half Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John in the army and Sherlock elsewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be a difficult chapter to get through as it talks about Sherlock and his drug use.

I Learned to Live, Half Alive

After the phone call John threw himself into his training. The army was all he had. He had nothing to return to. His family was non-existent. His parents were dead. Harry had disappeared somewhere in Birmingham but had no intentions of being a sister to him. And Sherlock had left him. He was alone. Alone except for the army.

John would give everything he had to his new family, the army.

He used every opportunity to learn everything he could about being a soldier. The study habits he used in medical school he applied to officer training. He pushed himself as hard as he could physically and spent his free time at the firing range with the drill sergeant improving his shooting scores. After the months of training, John finished top of his squad for basic. He wore his khaki dress uniform with the leather belt and sash over his shoulder at the commencement services. His black beret had the silver and gold insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corp on the center front. The commanding officer of the base pinned the ribbon on John’s uniform then saluted him. John smartly returned the salute. His face emotionless and stoic.

“Your family must be proud of you today, Watson,” the commanding officer said as he shook John’s hand. “Are they here? I would like to meet them.”

“No, sir. I am,” John hesitated. “Alone.”

“Oh.” The man seemed to be embarrassed. “Well, good job. You will make an excellent soldier.”

“Thank you, sir.” John took a precision step backwards and turned on his heal with the sharp discipline he had practiced.

~221~

With his single military bag packed, John reported to the Royal Army hospital in Cardiff. He applied himself again and quickly learned to be a combat surgeon. He was adept at surgery and received high praise from his attendings. After two years, John was a fully trained surgeon and respected member of the Queen’s Army. Captain John H. Watson.

No one who knew John before he joined the army attended his graduation ceremony. No one who knew him as a civilian congratulated him on his success. He kept telling himself he didn’t care.

“Shame your family couldn’t make the ceremony,” the general said to John as he shook John’s hand.

“Orphan, no next of kin, sir.” John said quietly. He had no idea where Harry was. He never informed her where he was or what he was doing.

“Oh, sorry to hear that. What you have done is to be commended.” The general said. “Have you considered where you would like to deployed?”

Common soldiers were not allowed to choose where they were sent, but the army did try to accommodate their officers. Most officers wanted to stay near home. Some wanted to go to more pleasant locations. Outside Paris. The Mediterranean.

John looked the general in the eye and said. “As far away from London as I can get.”

John’s orders came through for him to report to Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.

~221~

Camp Bastion was hot and dry. It seemed to be out in the middle of nowhere. Like an island in the middle of a sandy sea. It was four miles long and two miles wide. Rows of tan Quonset huts and canvas tents – prefab buildings – for over two thousand soldiers and miles of corrugated walkways encircled with razor wire and sandbag walls. Amongst all of this were a fully operational airport, and a hospital with doctors from all over the world. There was a constant hum of noise from construction vehicles and shouts from soldiers accented with the roar of airplane engines.

John hopped off the transport helicopter. His heavy military boots landed hard on the tarmac. John ducked his head and followed the other soldiers into a glaring white building just off the edge of the runway. Inside, the blast of air-conditioning immediately cooled his sweaty skin and made John shiver. He removed his helmet and glanced around. Desks, computers and phones. It appeared to be a normal looking office space. It would be familiar in any London office building except for everyone dressed in desert fatigues.

A major walked over to the men who had been on the helicopter with John. The major looked at each man’s orders and directed them where to go. He walked up to John and held out his hand.

“Major Hightower.”

John saluted, “Captain John Watson.”

The major gave a half-hearted salute back. He took John’s papers and quickly read through them.

“Doctor John Watson. Well, you know where you need to go. The engineers are finally done with your living quarters. Air-conditioned and running water. Private,” He waved a young service man over. “Take Captain Watson over to the hospital and introduce him to Doctor Humphrey. Then get back here.”

“Yes, sir.” The private saluted and immediately left with John trailing behind him.

John looked at the camp as they quickly walked through it. It was busy and noisy but many of the soldiers were sitting in their tents; the sides of their tents rolled up and allowing air to pass through while giving the soldiers much needed shade. The sound of distant gunfire didn’t seem to alarm anyone as John twisted his head to try and determine the direction it came from.

“Shooting range.” The private said as he pointed off to the right.

John’s eyes followed the direction but all he saw were more Quonset huts and antennae. A helicopter flew low over the base then turned to the northeast.

“Where is he going?” John asked.

“Could be anywhere, but probably Sangin.” Private turned a corner and up to a flat squat building. It looked large compared to the other buildings on the base. He opened the doors and John followed him.

~221~

Doctor Aubrey Humphrey was a lanky tall American with a pronounced Texas accent. He walked with such loose joints, that he looked like he was moments from falling to the ground boneless. His skin was tan and leathery. It seemed being in the sun and the desert was normal for him. His pale blue eyes easily squinted whenever he stepped outside. A trait he learned to guard his eyes from bright sunlight. He talked slow and dragged out his vowels. He like to talk and tell stories about his life back in Texas. But in the operating room, no one moved faster. He was an excellent surgeon.

John reported to Humphrey and was put on the Texan’s surgical team. By the end of the month, he had his own team. There were long stretches of boredom interrupted by the frantic moments of trauma. Casualties came in. Most were gunshot wounds. The surgical team’s success rate for those patients was high. Then there were the victims of explosions. The mangled and shredded bodies of IED’s and landmines. Successes were measured in saved lives and not saved limbs.

John felt he was fitting in. John felt he was finally doing something he could be proud of. He was a success and he was saving lives. It was important to him. He was making friends and had even convincing several of the other staff members to start up a rugby team. It didn’t matter he never heard anything from anyone in England. It was fine. He had purposefully cut himself off from everyone and everything that would remind him of Sherlock. He tried to convince himself it was better that way.

“Watson,” Humphrey called out as John was checking over one of his patients.

John glanced up and looked at his commanding officer.

“Yes, just a minute.” John wrote down a comment on the patient’s record and then set it back on the hook by the patient’s bed. He quickly turned and went over to Humphrey.

“We got a game on for tonight. Do you play?” Humphrey asked.

“Play?” John asked sounding confused. He thought he knew what Humphrey was talking about but he didn’t want to seem eager.

“Poker. Do you play? Dawson got transferred back to the states and we need a fifth. Do you play?”

John tried not to smile. He had been waiting for this. The ‘famous and by invitation only’ poker game between the various officers of the hospital. It was against regulations to play poker for money but it was one of the few diversions that Humphrey and his men to got up to and still be able to rush to surgery when in a moment’s notice.

“Yes, I play.” John tried to sound innocent. “But I might need a little refresher course.”

Humphrey sighed and nodded his head. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll take of y’all.”

John smiled brightly and Humphrey returned the smile. John had been playing poker most of his life and was very good at it. He rarely left a table as a loser.

“When?” John asked.

“Tonight. Bring your wallet.” Humphrey said. “We’ll be in the call room.”

John went on with the rest of his afternoon. He was washing up before dinner when he realized he was humming. He was happy. He hadn’t been happy since he spoke to Mycroft two years before. But he was happy now.

John sat on the edge of his bed and sighed. Maybe he would finally be over Sherlock Holmes.

To John’s surprise, not all the poker players were men. Sitting in the chair opposite John was Captain Mary Morstan. She was in charge of the nurses at Bastion. She was a petite woman with straw colored hair and an impish smile. Her cornflower blue eyes twinkled as John sat down.

“Good evening,” he said as he nodded slightly at Mary.

She smiled back.

“Don’t underestimate her, Watson. She’s as sharp as a tack and out for blood,” Humphrey said with his lyrical voice.

John tried to not laugh. He said, “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be careful.”

“Don’t let them scare you, John. I can call you John can’t I? I mean we are in a friendly game.” Mary’s voice was soft and warm.

“Please. I would like you to call me John if I can call you Mary.”

She smiled again. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The game continued for several hours. It was down to Humphrey, Mary and John. John hadn’t embarrassed himself at all. Winning often but not the most. That would be Mary Morstan. Humphrey was down to his last chips. The Jack of clubs, nine of hearts, seven of hearts, seven of clubs, three of hearts and ace of hearts was on the table. Humphrey left his cards on the table and only lifted the corner of them to look at them. He finally smiled and pushed the last of his chips in.

“All in.” He sighed.

John glanced at his cards. He had the king and two of hearts. A flush. He counted up his chips and matched Humphrey’s. “See you.”

Humphrey smiled.

Mary hummed and glance between the two men. She didn’t even look at her cards. She just slid in the necessary chips to match John and Humphrey.

Humphrey flipped over his cards. He had a ten and an eight – a straight. John laughed as he turned over his cards and showed the man he had a better hand. Mary tossed her two cards on top of the pile of chips. A Jack and seven – a full house. The best hand.

The two men leaned backed moaning.

“Mary, you beautiful rattlesnake.” Humphrey groaned. He stood up and stretched his long limbs. “I’m cleaned out to next payday.”

The other two men agreed. John counted his winnings and realized he hadn’t lost any money but hadn’t won a lot either. Mary simply slipped her winnings into her pocket without counting.

“John, would you walk a girl home?” She asked innocently.

John glance over at her while the other three men stared, dumbfounded.

“Ah, yeah. Sure.” John stood up and together the two walked out of the room. He barely caught Humphrey saying.

“Well, looks like Watson might be the big winner tonight.”

The air outside was cool. The hum of air-conditioners blocked out any other sounds of the desert. John and Mary walked down the corrugated walkway towards their quarters.

“Tell me, John, what will it take to break through your shell?” Mary asked casually.

John blinked his eyes and looked sideways at her. “I’m sorry?”

“You know that practically every nurse here has her eyes set on you. And you have ignored every single offer made.”

“I didn’t realize there were any offers. Besides, I don’t think the middle of a war is the best place for romance.”

“It’s the very best place for it.” Mary laughed softly. “And who said it has to be romance, why can’t it just be what ever it will be?”

Mary turned and grabbed John’s elbow, twisting the man to face her.

“Tell me John Watson, how do I break through that wall of ice you have put up? I would love to know.”

He stared into Mary’s eyes. They were lovely eyes. Bright and intelligent. Warm and inviting. She leaned in close and John thought he should kiss her. He thought he should want to kiss her.

Her breath was warm against his skin and it seemed so perfect. So natural. So not Sherlock.

John stepped back. “Sorry, but I don’t want something that’s just because we are here.”

Mary blinked her eyes. He thought she was going to get angry. Maybe even start yelling at him. Mary’s eyes scrutinized him closely.

“Whoever she was, she was idiot for letting you go.” Mary said softly as she took a step back.

“Maybe I was the idiot.” John said.

Mary looked at him quizzically for several heartbeats then agreed. “Maybe.”

~221~

As Sherlock came out of his haze, the throbbing of bass beat and muffled voices surrounded him. He saw blackness and stars. But the stars were lower, closer to the ground. He realized he was sitting on a couch. He was facing a bank of windows that looked out over London. The night sky was black but the city lights were bright. Like brilliant stars, sparking in the inky darkness.

He struggled to look around him. The couch was in a flat. An expensive flat. Sherlock blinked and tried to bring his surroundings into focus.

The music that was playing sounded like something he would hear at Frankie’s. Loud and instrumental. More beat than melody. He also heard something else. Moaning and soft voices. Slaps. He could smell something burning. It was bitter and sharp. Chemical taint that made him uneasy. Cocaine. Sherlock looked around and saw several people moving around him. Male and female. They were naked.

He blinked his eyes again and brought his hand up to his chest. To his relief, he was still dressed in his shirt. He looked down and saw his dirty jeans. He turned his head towards the sound he hadn’t recognized. There was a table, off to the side. A woman was laying on it. A man had grabbed her legs and held them akimbo as he plowed into her. She was groaning. Twisting on the tabletop as she was being used.

Sherlock watched as another man pushed the first man aside, and then took his place. His thrusts were more rapid. More demanding. The woman gasped and tried to move away, but the brut held her in place. She groaned and it was obvious she was not enjoying it anymore.

Sherlock looked away and immediately saw another nude man, kneeing before another. The kneeling man had his mouth wrapped around the other man’s cock. The standing man’s hand clutched the kneeling man’s hair, holding him still, as he fucked the man’s mouth.

Sherlock saw several other people in various sexual acts around him. He felt sick. He tipped his head over the back of couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to be here but struggled to find the strength to get up and leave.

He felt the press of another person’s body over his. He opened his eyes and looked up at the young woman crawling into his lap. She was ginger and thin. Very young. Her eyes were pale blue and bloodshot.

“Looks who finally awake,” she hummed. “I’ve been waiting for you. He said I could have you first if I was a good girl.” She reached for the buttons on Sherlock’s jeans.

“No,” he said as he tried to push her hands way.

“Let me. I want to suck you off. He wants to fuck you, but if I put on a good enough show, I’ll get you first.”

Sherlock’s brain pushed through the fog and started to comprehend what was being said to him. Sherlock shoved the young girl off his lap and stood.

“What the fuck? What’s your problem!?”

“Not my area of interest.” He said as he looked down at the woman on floor.

Sherlock stumbled over her and pushed himself pass the other naked revelers. He saw a door and tried to get to it. Just before he reached the doorknob, a hand came out and wrapped around his wrist.

“But you just woke up.” The voice was soft with a slight Irish accent.

Sherlock turned to look at the man holding his wrist. He was shorter than Sherlock, but not by much. He was attractive with dark hair and pale skin. His face was round and lean. He had the body of swimmer, tight and proportioned. The man was wearing clothes too, white shirt and dark trousers. Sherlock’s eyes traveled up and down the man’s body.

“Spectator?” Sherlock asked.

“For now. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry, I’m not on the menu.” Sherlock tried to pull out of the man’s grip.

“Not yet, but we all have our – appetites.” The man’s eyes moved up and down Sherlock.

“I already told your little friend, not my area of interest.”

“But we know that’s not true. I’ve known about you for a long time.” The stranger said as he licked his lips.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. “From whom?”

“Many sources. Victor for one.”

“Victor is dead.” Sherlock said wishing he were more coherent than he was.

The stranger smiled. “Yes he is.” He let go of Sherlock’s wrist. “I was terrible disappointed that we didn’t become acquainted more quickly. You wasted so much time with that stupid little medical student.”

Sherlock felt a wave of anger bite into him. “John is not stupid. He is . . .”

“Absent.”

Sherlock wavered. He reached out a hand to brace himself against the wall to prevent himself from falling. “Let me leave.” He demanded.

“But you’ve just woken up. I’m eager we get to know each other.”

“Biblically?” Sherlock asked.

The man smiled. “Every possible way.”

Suddenly another man appeared behind the man speaking to Sherlock. He seemed familiar but Sherlock couldn’t place him. The stranger was tall and blond. Broad shouldered with grey eyes but something was wrong with his face. Sherlock cursed he couldn’t focus his eyes. He pounded his fists against his temples.

_‘Think, think, think! What is wrong with you, idiot!’_ Sherlock thought to himself.

“Police in the lobby. They are on their way up.” The second man whispered.

The shorter man hissed. “Why weren’t we informed. What am I paying those idiots for if they don’t warn us of raids!”

“You need to leave now.” The blond said as he grabbed the shorter man’s arm.

“Bring him.” He waved at Sherlock.

Sherlock stumbled backwards. “No, I won’t go.”

The blond looked disgusted at Sherlock. “We don’t have time, boss. And he’s . . . he’s a junkie. Not worth it.”

The shorter man seemed to get angrier. He looked Sherlock over.

“I want to leave,” Sherlock tried to pull away.

The dark-haired man smiled again at Sherlock.

“This time I’ll let you go.” He hummed. “This time, but I will be back and then . . .” The stranger held out a small cellophane package. Sherlock could see it was ‘China White’. High quality heroin. “Next time, it will be more – intimate. Just the two of us.” The stranger smiled.

Sherlock felt a wave of self-loathing.

“Do I get to know the name of my benefactor?”

“Just call me Jimmy.” He smiled again. Sherlock noticed the smile didn’t reach the man’s eyes.

Sherlock grabbed the package of heroin and said. “There won’t be a next time.”

He stumbled forward but Jimmy caught him. Laughing softly.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Sherlock. And soon, I’ll have you on your knees before me.”

“Boss, the cops are on the way.” The blond plead. “The helicopter is waiting.”

Jimmy opened the door and pushed Sherlock out of the flat. Sherlock crashed to the floor. His head smacked on the marble floor. The door closed behind him and sound of the music and groans faded away.

Sherlock thought he was going to be sick. He wanted to throw up. Pushing himself to his hands and knees and waited, but nothing came out. He shivered on the cold floor.

Pulling himself up to his feet, he looked down and saw the package of heroin still clasped in his hand. He wanted to throw it away. He hated it. But he couldn’t. He stumbled forward and pressed the button for the lift. He knew where he could get a syringe.


	17. I Know I Can’t Take One More Step

I Know I Can’t Take One More Step

Detective Sergeant Greg Lestrade walked into the warehouse just off the Vauxhall Tunnels. The place smelled of mildew from the river and filth from the garbage strewn around the floor.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Greg asked the young PC.

“Yes, sir. It was here two hours ago when I called it in.” PC Wright said as he walked gingerly through the wet debris on the concrete floor.

“And why were you in here in the first place?” Greg asked.

“Boot’n out homeless. This is a popular place for them to kip.” Wright said as he turned on his torch and moved into a darker part of the building.

Greg followed the young man as several other uniform officers spread out behind them. Wright and Greg walked down a dark hallway and into what looked like a machine workshop. Massive machines stood silent and rusting. Stacked next to an ancient drill press were a dozen cardboard boxes. The names of various cigarette manufactures were printed on the outside of them.

Greg smiled as he stepped closer, looking at the stack. He had been tracking down the theft of cigarette cartons from shipping companies. This was a massive break in the investigation.

“Well, look’ie there.” Greg said then gave a high pitch whistle.

“Like I said,” Wright smiled. He knew this would look good in his record.

“Very good.” Greg said as he looked at the lot numbers listed on the side of the boxes. “Go out and have the other coppers search the whole warehouse. There’s twelve here but we’re missing thirty boxes in all.” At almost three thousand quid a box, the crooks had gotten away with over eighty-five thousand pounds worth of cigarettes.

Greg was moving around the boxes checking lot numbers with the list of stolen boxes when he heard a sound of scaping. Something softly being dragged over the concrete. He glanced around the room to see where the sound had come from. There was a gurgling noise, like someone was drowning. Greg pulled out his torch and held it like a truncheon. He slowly walked around the various pieces of heavy machinery still bolted to the ground. His footsteps seemed unnaturally loud.

He heard the gurgling again and quickly turned to the left. There on the floor he saw two scuffed up trainers. He stepped closer and realized there were feet in the shoes and legs attached.

“Metropolitan police. Get up!” Greg growled as threateningly as he could.

The feet didn’t move.

“I said get up!”

The feet shifted but didn’t make an attempt to stand.

Greg walked around the heavy machine and saw a man laid on his side. His face was hidden by his long dirty hair. Greg lightly kicked at the man’s feet. He didn’t move.

“Fuck’n junkie.” Greg hissed. He went to stand over the man and shouted, “Get the fuck up!”

Greg kicked at the man’s shoulder and pushed him over on to his back. Greg looked down into the dirty face. The grimy skin was tight over facial bones. The eyes sunken in. There was the presents of a scruffy beard. The hair was dirty and string. Greg couldn’t believe it was the same man he had spoken to just a few years before but he recognized Sherlock anyway.

“Sherlock! What the . . .” He reached for his radio and immediately cued it up. “Dispatch, this is Lestrade 778, I need emergency medical assistance at Vauxhall Tunnels. Pervious location listed. Civilian in need of medical attention.”

Greg knelt next to Sherlock. His hand reaching for Sherlock’s neck; his fingers searching for a pulse.

The radio crackled. “This is dispatch, report 778, situation.”

“Dispatch, this is 778, twenty-five-year-old male in medical distress. Possible . . .” Greg hesitate. He thought he knew what was wrong, but he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to bring the idea to life. “Possible head injury.” He lied.

“This is dispatch, 778, emergency response in route to your location.”

“Thank you Dispatch, 778 out.”

Greg quickly patted Sherlock down. Sherlock was cold. His skin felt like ice. Greg checked to see if there really was a pulse or if he had just fooled himself. There was a pulse, but it was weak and irregular. Greg took off his coat and laid it over Sherlock’s still body. He wondered if he should try and find John. He wondered how John could let Sherlock do this to himself. The last time Greg had seen the two of the together, they were happy. John was taking good care of Sherlock. He wondered what had happened.

~221~

Mycroft’s assistant had interrupted his phone call to the South African ambassador with a note. ‘ _Sherlock Homes had been admitted to Kings College Hospital, possible overdose.’_

Mycroft didn’t even say goodbye. He disconnected the call.

“When did this happen?” He asked his assistant who was still focused on her blackberry.

“The police found him half an hour ago in a warehouse off Wandsworth Road Vauxhall. He was taken to Kings College Hospital. He was admitted through their A and E department.” The dark-haired woman said as she read the report off her phone.

Mycroft moved and quickly put on his coat. “I want the name of his attending physicians by the time I get there.”

“Already sent to your mobile.” His assistant said.

“I want the name of the officer who found him.”

“Also sent to your mobile.”

Mycroft was rushing out of his office when his assistant added. “I was also researching the names of top three rehabilitation clinics in England. I will send them to your mobile. You shall have them by the time you reach hospital.”

Mycroft decided he might keep this assistant longer than a week.

~221~

Sherlock was woke up on a ward. His head hurt and mouth was terribly dry. He blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the light fixture over his bed.

“Want some water?”

Sherlock thought he knew that voice. He turned his head slightly. The simple movement brought agonizing pain to his skull.

Greg Lestrade was standing next to the bed. His hair was greyer than Sherlock remembered. His eyes were sadder.

“Were you trying to kill yourself or did you just screwed up?” Greg asked.

“If I attempted to kill myself, I would have been successful.” Sherlock’s voice was horse. “Where is that water?”

Greg held out a plastic cup with a straw in it for Sherlock to take. The younger man tried to reach for it but it was too much work. He collapsed into the bed.

“Here, let me help.” Greg sighed and placed the straw on Sherlock’s lower lip. “I tried to call John. His number has changed. What happened to the two of you?”

“He left.” Sherlock said as he pulled back from the water. It tasted metallic and burned his throat as he swallowed. He leaned forward and took another sip.

“You two broke up? Because of the drugs?”

“No, he just left. Joined the army. Went to finish his medical training.” Sherlock leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Did he know about the drugs?” Greg asked.

“No.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He needed to get back to Scotland Yard and write up his report about the cigarette theft. He couldn’t be standing here dealing with Sherlock’s drug problem. But he didn’t want to leave either.

“Do you want me to track him down? Maybe he could come by . . .”

“NO!” Sherlock tried to sit up quickly but winced at the pain it caused. He closed his eyes and slowly reclined back down. “Don’t. John has his own life now. He doesn’t need to be bothered with this.”

“Bothered? Don’t you think he would want to know? Don’t you think he would care?” Greg asked.

“That’s the problem. He would care too much, but he can’t. He needs to concentrate on not getting shot. On not getting killed.”

“I don’t understand you, Sherlock.” Greg said.

“Not surprising. Now leave me alone. I need to think.” Sherlock rolled away from the policeman.

Greg hesitated then turned to leave. “You could have thanked me for saving your life.” He said as he walked away.

Greg didn’t hear Sherlock say. “You didn’t save me.”

~221~

Mycroft’s assistant had texted him the pertinent information regarding rehab facilities in England before he reached the hospital. He chose one and told her to make arrangements for Sherlock to transferred to it immediately.

Mycroft’s car paused before the entrance of Kings College Hospital and Mycroft quickly got out. He marched into the hospital and to the wards without asking anyone directions. He was planning on exactly what he was going to say to his younger brother. He was going to tell Sherlock that this behavior could longer go on. That Sherlock’s drug abuse needed to stop immediately. Sherlock could no longer pine for John Watson. Mycroft had the entire speech planned out by the time his hand pushed open the door of the ward.

His was blocked from going any further. A black man in a white lab coat and stethoscope around his neck stood in Mycroft’s way.

“Excuse me,” Mycroft said as he tried to walk pass the man.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes’ next of kin?” The man, with a distinctive Jamaican accent, asked.

Mycroft paused and looked the man up and down. _Immigrant, schooled in England, doctor, married, happily, two children, both under the age of five. Not a threat._

“Yes, I’m his brother,” Mycroft said. He held his shoulders back waiting for the common remarks consideration.

“I’m Doctor Reginald Parker. I treated your brother when he came in.”

“Thank you, but do not worry yourself. Sherlock will not be remaining here long. I’m having him transferred.”

“Mister Holmes, your brother is extremely ill. And it is not only the drugs.”

Mycroft cocked his head slightly to the side. Sudden fear washed through him. There were numerous infectious diseases that intravenous drug users were prone to contract. Many incurable and fatal.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked.

“Fear,” Dr. Parker said.

“What?”

“Your brother tried to kill himself. Yes, yes, I know that most drug overdoses are mistakes but I don’t believe that is the case this time. I believe your brother wanted to not wake up. He may deny it but the quantity of heroin was sufficient to kill him.”

“I assure you, doctor, my brother is not someone who would take his own life.” Mycroft jeered but in the back of his mind a deep dark fear began to grow and step out into the light.

“Why, because you are not someone who would?”

Mycroft was taken back. He didn’t answer the doctor.

“When your brother came in he was awfully close to death. We gave him the opiate antagonist and his vitals improved rapidly, but he was still quite distraught. Begging to be left alone. He was delusional. He was despondent when he finally came around. Your brother needs help. He is a broken man. I’ve seen the cigarettes burns on his arms. I saw his medical record. He was in an abusive relationship wasn’t he?”

Mycroft was hit with a wave of guilt. “Yes, but I was unaware of it.”

“If you were unaware he was in physical pain, you are probably missing his emotional pain. I’m telling you, he needs more than just a lecture. Your brother needs understanding and help.”

Something in Mycroft’s mouth tasted sour. He didn’t want to stand here listen to this stranger. ‘ _How dare this doctor speak to me this way. This man doesn’t know anything about Sherlock and himself.’_ Mycroft thought to himself.

“I will deal with my brother as I see fit, Doctor Parker.” Mycroft said as he pushed passed him and towards Sherlock’s bed. If he kept speaking to Parker, Mycroft may had to acknowledge things he wanted to keep buried. Fear of actually losing Sherlock was the most important one.

He marched down the ward but hesitated when he saw an empty bed that his brother was supposed to be in. He turned to the ward nurse and asked her, “Where is the patient who is supposed to be in bed five?”

The young woman glanced up from her reports. “Excuse me?”

“Your patient – Sherlock Holmes? He was listed as the patient in bed five. He is missing. Where is he?”

The young nurse glanced over to the empty bed. She stood up and looked at the other patients in the other beds. “He was here a few minutes ago. I don’t know. He couldn’t have gotten very far. I mean he just had a visitor.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. The young nurse hurried off to see if Sherlock was just walking around the hospital. Mycroft went over to the vacated bed and looked around. Sherlock’s clothes were gone.

Sherlock was gone again and the words of the doctor echoed in Mycroft’s head.

_“Mister Holmes, your brother is extremely ill. And it is not only the drugs. Your brother tried to kill himself. Yes, yes, I know that most drug overdoses are mistakes but I don’t believe that is the case this time. I believe your brother wanted to not wake up. He may deny it but the quantity of heroin was sufficient to kill him.”_

What if Doctor Parker was correct in his diagnosis? What if Mycroft had underestimated Sherlock’s emotional health? Mycroft thought he might collapse. If anything happened to Sherlock – if he had failed his brother, then he was a failure in everything. Mycroft couldn’t face that possibility.

Something else had to be responsible here.

He grabbed his mobile and started texting his assistant to check CCTV cameras around the hospital. He was going to find Sherlock and get this straightened out. He just finished the text when he noticed a photograph. It was on the floor, just under edge of the bed. Mycroft picked it up to look at it.

It was grubby, like it had been in someone’s pocket for a while. The edges were worn and bent. The color had faded, but Mycroft could still see it was a picture of Sherlock and John. There were both sitting at a table together. John was glancing off into the distance while Sherlock was looking at John. Mycroft noticed Sherlock was smiling in the photograph. It stuck him oddly.

Sherlock was smiling. Sherlock rarely smiled. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time Sherlock had smiled in his presence. But here, in this photograph, he was smiling because of John. John Watson had made his brother happy and then John left him. Left Sherlock to his addiction.

Mycroft wadded the photograph up and threw it at the bin. His anger caused by his fear for his brother focused into that simple act.

“I hate you, John Watson. I will make sure you pay for all the pain you’ve caused us. Just see if I don’t.”

Mycroft turned on his heels and marched out of the ward.

~221~

The next week, John received orders to report to a frontline deployment.


	18. Who Do You Think You Are?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's deployment

Who Do You Think You Are?

Colonel Arthur Bennet looked at the orders in his hands then up at the captain in front of him.

“I don’t need a surgeon here.” The colonel said folding the orders back into the envelope and handing it back to John. “Did you request to be stationed in a forward base?”

“No, sir.” John said remaining at attention.

“There is no hospital here. The idea of sterile conditions for surgery here is impossible. I need soldiers. What the hell am I going to do with a doctor.” Colonel Bennet cursed.

“I am a soldier.” John said. His eyes fixed on the wall behind the colonel’s head.

He didn’t know why he was deployed to Sangin either, but here he was and here he would fight.

“Have you even ever held a gun?” Colonel Bennet asked condescendingly.

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel frowned. He looked John over again. The young man was small framed but solid looking. He appeared strong and able. But he was a combat surgeon not an infantryman.

“You pissed somebody off, kid.” Colonel Bennet said. “But if you can shoot, we can use you. Report to Major Sholto and get your assignment. Dismissed.”

John saluted and turned on his heel. He marched out of the officer’s presence and back into the heat of the Afghan desert.

Sangin was a forward base in Helmand Province. A haven for the Taliban. Both the Northumberland Fusiliers and Royal Commandos were stationed there. It was made up a nest of crumbling buildings and partially buried tents surround by walls of mud bricks and sandbags. The Helmand River, a sluggish brown smear in the valley, flowed slowly pass the western wall of the base.

The Helmand valley was nestled in the Baba Mountain Range. Strips of silver-green vegetation grew on either side of the river as farmers and sheep herds lived tenuous lives there. Opium being the main export before the Taliban came to power. Steep grey mountains corralled the narrow valley. A few miles to the east was Route 116 that traveled north to south and was so frequently mined with IED that it was safer to drive across the unpaved desert than to drive down the yellow dirt track.

John stepped out into the scorching heat of the day and walked across the packed dirt of the compound to a narrow set of steps that led down into a partial buried complex of corrugated steel and prefab walls. Opening the door to the building, led one into a warren of rooms and hallways. Vinyl flooring had been laid down on the dirt floors. And doors to the rooms were often nothing more than blankets or curtains.

The first room was made up of radios and video equipment with images of the area surrounding the encampment. A large humming swamp cooler weakly blew cool air around the electronics. The crackle of radio transmissions from squads in the fields drowned out the hum of the swamp cooler. The second room was a large room with a paper map of the area pinned to one of the walls. There were rows of benches in the room and an old-fashioned chalkboard for briefings. From there, the warren broke off into smaller and smaller rooms.

John followed the narrow passages until he found the room he was looking for. He tapped his foot on the vinyl flooring in lieu of having a door to knock on.

“Major Sholto.” John said loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the curtained door.

“Enter.” Came of strong yet quiet voice.

John pulled the curtain aside and walked into the man’s quarters.

“Major Sholto, Colonel Bennet told me to report to you for assignment to a squad.” John held out his papers for the major to look at.

Major James Sholto took a moment to look John over. His bright turquoise blue eyes swept from the top of John’s head down to his dusty boots and back up again. He assessed the young man and made a judgement before he even took the papers and read the orders.

_Clean uniform. Un-scuffed boots. Sweating like someone who spent a lot of time in air-conditioned quarters. Newly transferred in. Gritting his teeth. Angry. Brand new officer who didn’t want front line action._

Sholto read the orders and realized he was completely wrong.

“Doctor?” Sholto said confused. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Sholto towered over John; he was over six foot tall. He was darkly tanned and the wind had etched his face with deep lines. His eyes were a shocking shade of blue green that accented his ginger hair.

“I was assigned here.” John said trying to not sound exasperated by being asked the same question over and over again.

“We don’t need a doctor. What the hell do you plan to do here? Holiday?”

John struggled to not roll his eyes. “I am fully trained in first aid and triage.”

“Can you handle a gun?” Sholto asked as he looked carefully at John.

“Yes, better than most.” John said confidently.

“We’ll see.” Sholto frowned. “You will be with my squad.”

“Your squad? Why?” John asked suspiciously.

“I always take out new recruits so they don’t get themselves killed on their first day.” He said patronizingly at John. “We leave at zero-five-thirty. Be ready.”

John knew he was being insulted but couldn’t do anything about it. “Yes, sir.” John saluted as Sholto handed the papers back.

“And none of that ‘yes, sir, no, sir’ crap out here. And don’t fucking salute me. I don’t want to get shot because some Taliban sniper sees I’m an officer.”

“Major Sholto, we are both officers. Please remember that.” John glared.

He knew he was pushing it, but he was tired of being sneered at.

Sholto’s turquoise eyes flashed at John, then he laughed. Loud and boisterous. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes as they grew darker. “Those strips on your sleeve don’t mean much out here. Being a soldier is more important than rank.”

“I am a soldier, Major Sholto. And a damn fine one.” John didn’t back down.

“We’ll see how good of a soldier you are. Zero-five-thirty. Be ready. Full pack. We’ll be out for forty-eight hours. Ever sleep on the ground before?”

“Yes, and in a freezing rain too.” John answered without blinking. He turned and walked out of the man’s quarters.

~221~

John was bunked with the other captain at the base, Mayfield. Their tent was near the communication building and the constant hum of the swamp cooler became something like a white noise machine to the two men. At zero-five-hundred, John was already dressed and waiting in the briefing room for Sholto and other men. Slowly, the soldiers filed into the room. Some taking a seat on the benches, while others hung back and looked curiously at John. There were whispers and questioning looks. At zero-five-thirty, Sholto came into the room – coffee cup in his hand. He immediately noticed John standing near the front of the room. Sholto was taken back that John not only was there before him but appeared relax and attentive. No sign of the usual anxiety of a new soldier in a combat zone.

“Alright, sit down.” Sholto said as he glanced sideways at John.

John took a seat on the front row. Sholto started his briefing, explaining what the squad was going to be doing. It was a simple patrol. The Humvees would take them out to a drop off point and the team would circle around several villages then meet up with the second squad day after tomorrow. No one was listening to him. All eyes were fixed on John.

“And finally, we have a new member,” Sholto said, nodding towards John. “Captain John Watson, RAMC.”

There was murmurs and whispers. _“RAMC? What was he doing there?”_ John stood up and nodded to the men, then sat back down.

“Alright, everyone outside in two minutes.” Sholto said. He watched as John reached down and picked up his backpack. “That’s not regulation.”

“It’s a full ‘med’ pack.” John said. It was larger than a field pack and probably weighed an extra fifteen pounds. Not a lot but over several miles, it would weigh the smaller man down.

“You shouldn’t take that. You’ll regret it by tonight.”

“Better to have the stuff and not need it than to need it and not have it.” John said as he picked it up one handed. He grabbed his rifle and slung it over his right shoulder.

Sholto shook his head and watched as John followed the other men out of the briefing. Two Humvees were waiting for them. John climbed into the front seat of the second one, next to the driver, as he tightened the chinstraps on his helmet. Sholto almost told him to get into the Humvee he was riding in but it was more intelligent to keep the officers apart. He got into the first one and the two vehicles drove out of the compound.

The dawn was rising over the dark grey mountains as the Humvees drove east. The sky shifted from blue to violet to red as the sun slowly climbed to the tips of the peaks. When the sun cleared the tops of the mountains, the blazing yellow light blinded the men in the vehicles. Sholto put on his dark sunglasses and watched as the scenery changed from the green farmland near the river to the dry high desert to the east of the river.

In the second vehicle, John sat in the front seat and watched the truck in front of them.

“So Captain Watson, why would a doctor be stationed out here?” one of the men in the backseat asked.

“Don’t know. Must have pissed in someone’s beer.” John said without looking at the soldier who asked him.

The men in the backseat laughed and one patted John on the shoulder. “Welcome, Captain Watson.”

“Where you from?” One of the other soldier’s asked him.

“London,” John said.

The other men rattled off where they were from and quickly the men developed a banter back and forth with the new member of their squad.

It was near ten in the morning and the sun was a white ball of light in a bleached-out sky. The ground around them was pale and yellow with patches of green fields and silvery trees in the distance.

“Over there,” one of the soldiers in the backseat pointed at a distant field that looked like it had snow on it. “Poppies.”

John turned to looked at the field that was partially obscured by a low mud wall. John’s eyes moved slowly over the field when a movement closer to the road caught his attention. Two men were laying in a ditch. Just their pakols were barely visible above the edge of the dip.

“STOP!” John shouted. He grabbed the driver’s arm. The man braked the truck and it spun sideways on the gravel.

Suddenly, everything slowed down. The flash from the IED was white. It roared in their ears. John watched as the Humvee in front of them abruptly lift off the ground on the left side. It seemed to float up into the air. The vehicle spun in the air to the right and landed upside down on the side of the road.

The Humvee John skidded to a stop. But before it stopped moving, John was jumping from the open passenger’s side door. There was a crackle of gunfire around John. Gravel and dust jumped up from the road and into John’s face, but he didn’t stop. He ran straight for the upside-down Humvee. More gunfire and he heard the men in the second vehicle shouting.

“RETURN FIRE!” John instinctively shouted.

John’s combat boots skidded on the yellow dirt as he tried to stop himself before he hit the wreck truck.

“Sholto!?” John shouted.

“I’m okay!” The major shouted back. “My leg is caught. The metal is bent around it.”

John crawled into the overturned vehicle as bullets ricocheted against the metal. The soldiers returned the fire. There were pings and sound of breaking glass as the upside-down vehicle was hit with another round.

Ignoring the shots being fired at him, John reached for the major and quickly looked him over.

“Your arm looks broken, can you move it?” He asked as he crawled over the tossed backpacks and weapons outside the truck.

James looked down at his arm and saw the odd angle it was bent. He didn’t even know he had hurt it. His pulse was so rapid, he was having a difficult time even understanding what the Captain was saying to him.

“I think,” he tried to move it. “FUCK!” He winced at the pain. “NO. What about the men?”

Outside the overturn vehicle, gunfire rattled the morning air around them. There were shouts and the sound of bullets piercing metal.

John twisted and looked at the driver. The young man was dead. The lower half of his body was torn in two. The soldier who had been sitting behind the driver was unconscious. Blood was seeping through this canvas trousers. The left side of his face and left arm were blackened and blistered. John reached for his neck and check the young man’s pulse. It was there and strong.

“Mathis is dead. I think the others will live.” John said as he reached for one of the soldier’s backpack and started pulling supplies out of it. He found the first aid kit and pulled it out. More gunfire and bullets ricochet off the Humvee.

John crawled into the back and tried to stop the bleeding of the unconscious soldier. The other two men in the backseat had started to shift and twist out of the wreckage. As soon as they were free, they joined the other soldiers who were shooting at the Taliban fighters.

“Henn!” John shouted and a young soldier appeared at the window of the vehicle. “Radio in an air strike on that poppy field. They’re behind the mud wall.”

“Yes sir!” The soldier barked back.

“And get us a dust off. We can’t get everyone back in one vehicle.”

“Yes, sir.”

Henn immediately started radioing back to the compound in Sangin. John carefully dragged the injured soldier from the backseat of the truck and laid him down where he wouldn’t be hit by a stray bullet. The bandage John had put on the man’s leg while they were inside the wreckage was already soaked through. He glanced back at the other vehicle where his full med pack was. He ducked down and rushed back over to the truck and pulled it out. Then as bullets flew over his head, John carried the heavy pack back and pulled out the necessary pressure bandages to save the young man’s life. Quickly, he tied a pressure bandage over the man’s leg. He checked the man’s other injuries and stabilized him as best he could.

Sholto watched as John disregarded his own safety to save the young man’s life. He was amazed. He had never seen a new recruit so fearless or so determined as John was. When John crawled back into the truck with him, Sholto growled, “Get them out of here!”

“I’m doing that, but we’re not going to leave you here.”

“I’m giving you an order.” Sholto shouted.

“And I’m refusing to abandon my patient. Now shut up and help me.” John grabbed a rifle and shoved the butt of the gun down between James’ leg and the damaged metal flooring. John tried to twist the gun to push the metal back but didn’t have enough leverage.

James realized what John was doing and grabbed the barrel of the gun with his good arm. Together they pulled and the metal groaned. There was a pop and sound of sliding metal. James’ leg was free.

John climbed out of the overturned Humvee and then pulled James out. John pulled James over to the other injured soldier. James looked down at the unconscious man. John had place a tourniquet on the man’s leg and placed pressure bandages over what remained of his left leg. The boy’s blood stained the yellow dirt road. The soldier was pale under the dirt and blood smeared across his face.

Sholto placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to write another letter to another family. He wondered if John had done enough to prevent that. James turned to ask a question of the doctor, only to see John, with a rifle in hand, returning fire at the enemy. James watched as John shot is short bursts, controlled and accurate.

Suddenly, there was roar of jets over their heads. Loud and powerful. The ground around them seemed to shake with it. Two missiles were fired off the ZD408. The poppy field erupted in white phosphorus. The gunfire ceased.

The rhythmic drumming of a helicopter rose as James turned to see the John with a rifle still at his shoulder move around the wrecked truck and out towards the field. Several men followed him. The helicopter landed and the men set up a defensive perimeter around it. The doors opened and three soldiers rushed over to James and the other injured man.

“Time to go, Major.” They picked up James and the other man.

Sholto saw John carry the body of the dead soldier to the chopper. John gently laid the dead man on the deck of the chopper then turned to speak to the medic when Sholto and the other men from the wreck were brought over. Sholto and the other men were placed in the chopper. Then the John moved back.

“WAIT!” Shouted Sholto, but the chopper was already moving.

The last thing he saw was John waving the men back to other Humvee. John’s rifle still secure and ready to be used. Sholto leaned back against the bulkhead of the chopper and thought it was a particularly good thing they had Watson with them.


	19. Runnin’ ‘Round Leaving Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycoft and Sherlock's story

Runnin’ ‘Round Leaving Scars

Mycroft studied the CCTV video of Sherlock leaving hospital. He could be followed for several blocks, then he disappeared again. Mycroft cursed under his breath and rubbed his eyes. The sting he felt there was not just from fatigue. The nagging sensation of failure itched at his very soul.

_Mycroft remembered the little boy he had found at hospital. He had received the phone call his parents had been in a car accident. They had been killed. It wasn’t until he reached the hospital did he realize his brother had been in the car with them. Sherlock was just nine. He had been asleep in the back seat of the car when they were struck by the drunk driver. The chauffeur and their father had been killed instantly. Mycroft and Sherlock’s mother had been alive for a short period of time. But long enough to tell Sherlock not to be afraid._

_But Sherlock was afraid. He had seen his mother die. He had his father’s blood splashed across his face. He sat alone in a hospital room. No one sitting with the frightened child. Sherlock was waiting for his older brother to return from Cambridge to collect him. Sherlock was shaking when Mycroft came into the room. His pale blue-green eyes were wide and frantic. His small fingers were worrying the hem of the sheet._

_As soon as Mycroft opened the door, he knew he was unprepared to raise his brother He was unable to help his younger brother either emotionally or physically._

_“I’m sorry, Mycroft.” The small voice said._

_Mycroft stood staring at his brother. He didn’t know what to say. He stepped closer to the bed and looked down into the eyes of the terrified child._

_“Are you ready to go?” Mycroft asked falling back on his professional persona._

_“Mommy and Daddy . . .”_

_“I know. Let’s not dwell on it, please.” Mycroft didn’t want to think about it. He would collapse if he did. He needed to concentrate on Sherlock now and concentrate on what he had to do. “Arrangements will be made.”_

_“But . . .” Sherlock bit his lip. Tears welled up in his frightened eyes._

_“I will handle it. You must do as you are told, Sherlock. Get dressed so we can go home.”_

_But Mycroft didn’t handle it. Or not as well as he should have. The funeral was simple. No friends or extended family were there. Only Sherlock and Mycroft, standing next to the open graves. A week later, Mycroft was having their home shut up. The staff was let go and the furniture was put into storage. Sherlock was being sent to boarding school. Mycroft told himself it was for the best. He was still at Cambridge and he couldn’t stop his studies to take care of his traumatized brother. He promised himself he would make it up to Sherlock. He would make sure he was able to protect him and keep his younger brother safe._

_Mycroft couldn’t face the death of his parents either, so instead of dealing with the loss, he refused to acknowledge his feelings. He shut everything away, like he had done with the house. Like he had done with his brother. He didn’t even make an attempt to see Sherlock on holidays. Letting the young man spend school holidays at the boarding school. And summers were spent with hired guardians until Sherlock was fifteen. After that he was left to himself. And everything Sherlock did was done to antagonize Mycroft._

_Mycroft only learned about Victor Trevor after Sherlock had moved in with him. Mycroft insisted they meet. It was supposed to be a congenial dinner at one of Mycroft’s favorite restaurants. It turned into an evening of competition and antagonism between Mycroft and Sherlock. The bitterness of Sherlock’s childhood was firmly placed at Mycroft’s feet. Trevor sat in his chair, sipping his wine, smiling as the two brothers bickered. Mycroft found Trevor to be repellant._

Mycroft had failed Sherlock when their parents died. He failed him with Victor Trevor and now he had failed again.

He pulled his hands way from his face and looked down at them. They were trembling. A slight shake but with significant ramifications. He was falling apart, because fifteen years ago, he couldn’t hold his frightened brother. He couldn’t let himself cry with the boy. He didn’t let Sherlock grieve and allow himself to grieve with him.

The knock on his office door brought Mycroft out of his stupor and back into the concerns of the present. He pressed the button and the door unlocked. His new assistant entered the room carrying a brown paper sack.

“I noticed that you miss your dinner tonight, and it is now after eleven.” The woman said as she set the sack down on the desktop.

Something inside the sack smelled delicious and Mycroft’s stomach growled.

Ignoring the bodily groan, Mycroft said, “Thank you but I’m too busy . . .”

The woman started removing several take-away boxes. “I wasn’t sure what you would care for so I chose a selection from some of your favorite restaurants. Dim sum from the Lotus. Korma from Rajkumar Key Maje. Smoked salmon from Albanocks. And chicken soup from my home.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I don’t remember your home being one of my favorite restaurants.”

“No, but my grand said her chicken soup recipe could solve most of the world’s problems if the politicians would just try it.” The woman said as she laid out cutlery for Mycroft.

“Well, in that case I believe I will have the soup.”

The woman smiled and handed him the container of hot soup. He opened it and the steam lofted up with the warm and inviting smells of chicken and vegetable with a hint of bay and French thyme. Mycroft couldn’t stop himself. He breathed in deeply and hummed in expectation. The soup might not have solved world problems, but it was the best he had ever had.

“Thank you, my dear. That was lovely.” He smiled at his assistant. She was typing rapidly on her blackberry. “I feel remiss in that I haven’t learned your name yet. I believe it was Miss William?”

“Yes,” she smiled.

“What is your Christian name?”

Her smile faltered. “I would prefer you not use it.”

“I apologize for being so forward.”

“It is not that. I do not use it because it’s – plain.” She said quietly.

“And you do not wish to appear to be plain?” Mycroft asked realizing his name and Sherlock’s had brought nothing but bullying when they were younger.

“I do not wish to be considered ordinary and dull.”

“Then you should choose a name that is more appealing to your mood.”

“But my mood changes often.” She said.

“Then change your name according to your needs.”

“In that case, I believe today I will be Anthea.” She smiled again as she started to pack up the unopened containers of food.

Mycroft frowned at seeing the temptations from his favorite restaurants removed, but he knew binging himself right now wouldn’t help his situation.

There was a soft ring from Anthea’s blackberry and she glanced at it. “Sir, a CCTV camera just picked up your brother entering a house in Empson Street Industrial Estates.”

Mycroft quickly stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Are you sure?”

“The facial recognition is at ninety percent. But sir, I don’t think you should go there.” Anthea said looking up at Mycroft.

“Why not?”

“It is a meth den.”

~221~

The pale-yellow brick building was three stories tall. Most of the windows were broken out and doors were locked with padlocks and chains. The only door that appeared to be unlocked was a side door. It led into a broad hallway whose floor was covered with debris and trash. The place smelled of urine and sweat.

What light that seeped in through the broken windows, lit the concrete stairs that led Mycroft up to warren of addiction and desolation. He heard voices and soft moans. He wasn’t alone in the building and no one seemed concerned by his presence. He moved passed open doorways and saw huddled forms laying on the floors; some were on mattresses, some on the bare wood.

The rooms stank of decay and rot. Mildew and excrement. Mycroft covered his noise with his handkerchief as he walked through the building. Fearing his brother wasn’t there but fearing more that he could be.

Mycroft heard a deep groaning coming from a darkened room on the second floor. It was a small room with only one occupant. As soon as Mycroft saw the shape of the man, he knew it was Sherlock.

His long thin body was taut with spasms. Sweat made his skin glisten in the limited light. Sherlock was shivering. Mycroft took off his coat and laid it over his brother. He knew he couldn’t get Sherlock out of the building by himself. Sherlock was in the throes of a drug overdose. The young man cried out in pain and fear as he fought within his own mind. The demons of his own subconscious. Mycroft pulled out his mobile and dialed for assistance. It would be several minutes until his team could arrive with an ambulance. He sat down beside Sherlock and waited.

Several times in the few minutes Mycroft waited, Sherlock stilled and silenced. Mycroft would reach over and check if his brother was still alive during those moments of stillness. Sherlock’s skin was chilled and his breathing barely visible. Mycroft fought his fear and his remorse. His failings as he watched his brother suddenly thrash and jerk away from him. Sherlock’s deep voice pleading.

“Don’t leave . . . I promise I’ll behave . . . don’t leave.”

Words he had heard when Sherlock was a child. Words he wondered if John had heard or Victor. Had his mother heard them before she died.

Mycroft sat waiting, wondering if Sherlock would die before he could finally help him. Before he would save him. Mycroft never felt more useless than he did in that moment. More useless than he felt standing next to his parents open grave, not knowing what to do next. More useless than he felt when he saw his nine-year-old brother frightened and alone in a hospital bed.

He buried his face in his hands and prayed the ambulance would arrive in time. He prayed he would finally have a chance to do what was right for Sherlock. He would finally be the brother the man needed. The seconds ticked by. Stretched to hours. Mycroft waited as Sherlock flailed on the dirty mattress.

~221~

Sherlock’s first thought when he woke was of John. The warmth of John’s embrace. The weight of his body next to Sherlock’s. The sensation of John curled around him. The bright blue eyes of John. Warm and inviting as a Spring day.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he lucidly dreamed of his lover. The sound of John’s voice as he whispered in Sherlock’s ear. The taste of John’s kisses. Tea and jam.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his body and wished.

Then the recurring dream returned to him. John sitting on the bank of a river watching the changing sky above him. John sitting in his military fatigues, tan and muscular. Then the crack of a gunshot and John lying in the dirt. His blood seeping into the sand.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he gasped. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. His wrist and ankles were secured to the bed. Sherlock frantically looked around the room. He didn’t recognize anything. His heartrate sped up as he tried to remember. ‘ _How did he get here? Who could have brought him? Where was he?_ ’

He struggled. He remembered being at the meth house in Empson Street. He remembered making the deal to buy the drugs. He remembered fleeing King’s College Hospital.

The haze in Sherlock’s mind lifted. _Hospital_. He finally realized there was an IV attached to his arm. He looked around the room again. It was larger than the standard hospital room. The furniture was nicer. The bed, obviously a hospital bed with rails and adjustments, was slightly wider than the standard bed and far more comfortable.

 _‘Not an NHS hospital’,_ Sherlock’s mind informed him. ‘ _A private sanatorium’_. Sherlock sighed heavily and closed his eyes as he leaned back down. The only person who would place him in a private sanatorium would be his brother, Mycroft. That would explain the restraints. Apparently, he was expected to stick around this time to listen to what ever chastising Mycroft felt compelled to give him.

Sherlock laid his head back down into the pillow and waited. It wasn’t long until a middle-aged woman came into the room. Her plain brown hair was twisted up into a bun at the back of her skull. Her face was narrow and her muddy brown eyes seemed to be too far apart for her face. She was not dressed as a nurse at all. She wore pale brown cotton blouse and dark wool slacks. Her shoes were leather loafers with crepe soles. The only indication she was medical personnel was the stethoscope looped behind her neck.

“Good morning, Mister Holmes.” She greeted him with a Welsh accent.

“Where am I?”

“Pennybank Home.” She slipped the stethoscope in her ears and leaned down over him.

“And where is Pennybank Home located?”

“Quite, please.” She listened to his breathing. “You developed a slight pneumonia during your little excursion.”

“My excursion? You mean my stint into a drug induced tolerance for living.” He sneered at the woman.

She frowned and stood up straight. “The antibiotics should knock that out quickly. You are also very emaciated. We will need to fatten you up.”

She went to a table and picked up a three-ring binder. Opening it up, she reviewed something inside it then wrote a note on the same page.

“You’ve been unconscious for thirty-six hours. Sleep was the best thing for you but now it is time to get to work.” She closed the binder and set it back down. “Detox, group therapy and rehabilitation.”

“And I refuse.” Sherlock said smugly, turning his face away from the woman.

“You do not have a choice, Sherlock.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock growled. He hadn’t noticed his brother come into the room. Mycroft moved to stand at the foot of the bed and looked down at his brother before he addressed the woman.

“Thank you, Doctor Owen. But I would like to speak to my brother in private.”

“Yes, of course. I will be in my office if you wish to consult with me before you leave.”

Both men waited until Dr. Owens had left. Sherlock glaring at Mycroft while Mycroft remained aloof. Once the door was shut, it was Sherlock who spoke first.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me here!”

“Yes, I can.”

“It’s kidnapping! It’s illegal!”

“No, it is not. It is neither kidnapping nor is it illegal. You have proven that you are incapable of taking care of yourself. Therefore I have been place as your guardian. Protector from yourself. You are no longer allowed to make decisions regarding practically any aspect of your life. I will decide where you will live, who will have contact with you and what medical treatments you will receive.” Mycroft said with a deep sincerity.

“You can’t . . .” Sherlock’s voice trailed off.

“You overdosed twice in as few of days, Sherlock. One can only assume it was an obvious suicide attempt.”

“It wasn’t.” Sherlock quickly contradicted. 

“It was. And because you were so determined at self-harm, a conservatorship has been set into place. I am your guardian. I will be making your decisions for you.”

“I refuse!” Sherlock tried to sit up but the restraints held him down.

“You can’t, Sherlock. Not legally.” Mycroft stepped away from the bed and sat down in a cushioned chair by the window. “But I’m not without a heart.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Sherlock sneered.

“You cooperate with the doctors here and you go through rehabilitation and I will allow you to leave here in four months.”

“Rehab takes a month.” Sherlock spat back.

“A normal rehabilitation takes four weeks, but I believe we can both agree you do not fall within the spectrum of normal. Four months of therapy and re-education and pattern alteration or you will never leave here.”

“My brain will rot!” Sherlock shouted.

“Your brain is already rotting with the drugs you have used. It stops now, Sherlock, or this room will be your life from now on.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft then scoffed. He turned away and stared at the wall.

“I hate you.”

“I expect nothing less,” Mycroft said as he stood up and left.

Mycroft knew Sherlock would hate him. He didn’t blame him. He had failed Sherlock in the past but he promised himself he would not fail him now. Regardless of how Sherlock felt, he would take care of him. He would protect his brother, even from himself.

~221~

Sherlock went through detox rather quickly. His body metabolized the drugs rapidly. The rehabilitation portion of his treatment was far more difficult. After two months, not much had changed regarding his attitude to the whole situation.

Sherlock was in his room, hunched over a table with his back towards the door, when Dr. Owens came in.

“Go away.” He growled.

“Mister Holmes, you missed group therapy again.” She said as she stepped closer to the table. “You know it is a prerequisite of your brother’s that you attend.”

“Boring.”

“It will help you learn to cope with the triggers for your drug . . . what are you doing!?”

She looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock was presently dissecting a heart. Before him on the table were several other organs. All very small and obviously not human.

“I got the cook to give me the giblets from a turkey and a goose. I’m comparing the anatomical differences in the two species.”

“Oh, my God!” Dr. Owens grabbed the tray with the various dissected giblets and the pen knife from Sherlock’s hand. “Who gave you that knife?!”

“It’s not a knife.” Sherlock said offended.

“You could harm yourself with it.”

“I could give myself a papercut.” Sherlock sneered.

“Who gave you the knife?” She demanded.

“I stole it.” Sherlock said turning away from the angry doctor. He stood up and stomped over to another chair and flounced down into it.

“Sherlock . . .”

“Oh, now it is Sherlock. When you use my first name, I know you are trying to manipulate me.”

“You are the one whose has been manipulating people. Nurse Bobbie Wilson has left.”

“She shouldn’t have been having an affair with Doctor Gupta.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And the aid, Norman.” Dr. Owen raised her eyebrow in an accusing manner.

“He was trying to sneak drugs in for the patients. I thought you would be happy to see him leave.”

“He was?” She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. You drove him away.”

“He wouldn’t sell any to me. Something about fearing for his life if he did.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

“Sherlock – if you don’t engage with your therapy, you will never be able to leave here.” Dr. Owens said.

“You honestly think Mycroft will ever let me leave here. No. This is my prison from now on until the ‘thunderclap’ of doom’s day.” Sherlock sulked.

“This is not a prison. It is a sanatorium. You are allowed to walk around the grounds. You are free to do as you please – within reason.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“We are only here to help you.” She said firmly.

“You are here to spy on me for my brother.” Sherlock growled.

Dr. Owens shrugged her shoulders. “Then you give me no choice. You will lose privileges if you do not cooperate.”

“What privileges?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

“First off, you will no longer be allowed to roam the gardens outside anymore. You will confined to the interior of the buildings.”

Sherlock sat up and glared at her. “You can’t. I’m conducting a study on the bees and their pollination habits.”

“Second, you will not be allowed any visitors.” Dr. Owens said calmly, ignoring Sherlock’s protest.

“Visitors? When do I get visitors? Who would visit me? If you are speaking of my interfering brother, I would be thankful if you kept him away from me.” Sherlock returned to his sulk.

“You have a visitor now. Someone from the Metropolitan Police Department. He says he is an old friend of yours.”

Sherlock’s head swiveled rapidly towards the door. “Lestrade?”

“I believe that is the name he gave me.”

Sherlock stood up and started to walk towards the door but halted. He turned back and looked at the woman.

“And you are going to send him away?” Sherlock asked.

“If you refuse to participate in group therapy.”

He shifted on his feet. He was desperate to speak to Lestrade. Maybe he would have an interesting case for Sherlock to solve. Lestrade could help break up the tedium of the clinic.

Sherlock turned back to the woman and nodded his head. “Agreed.”

“And you will not do anymore dissection in your room.” Dr. Owens said firmly.

Sherlock was about to argue the point but then realized he could ask Lestrade to provide him with more interesting diversions than turkey guts. He fell back into the chair.

“Agreed.” He said with finality.

Dr. Owens smiled and walked to the door, still carrying the tray of cut up scraps. She opened the door and spoke to someone outside.

“He can see you now.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet as Lestrade walked into the room.

“Well, there you are. Do you know how hard it was to find you?” Greg Lestrade walked up to Sherlock and hugged him.

Dr. Owens nearly dropped the tray of giblets. Her mouth dropped open and she stared in shock at the two men. She didn’t notice the jeer on Sherlock’s face.

“Since I’m not exactly sure where I am, I couldn’t deduce how difficult it would be to find me.” Sherlock said as Lestrade let go of him.

Sherlock waved Lestrade to take a seat.

“Harlow.” Lestrade said.

“Harlow?” Sherlock didn’t realized he was so close to London.

“Yeah, ran into your friend Stanford at an autopsy.” Lestrade said. He saw the sudden peak of interest in Sherlock’s eyes. He waved his hand. “Nothing important. I asked if he had heard anything about you. I mean, I went to see you at King’s and you were gone. I was told you were transferred but no one would tell me anything. Stanford didn’t even know you had been . . .” Greg realized the next few words could be awkward. “You were sick.”

“The diagnosis was opioid overdose.” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Yeah, well, he didn’t know and made a few calls for me. He said you had be transferred up here to this fancy private clinic. I’m surprise you are still here.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’m not allowed to leave until my brother decides I’m fit to look after myself.”

“You were never fit,” Greg laughed. “That why John spent all his spare time looking after you.”

Greg saw a shadow pass over Sherlock’s face. Greg coughed to cover up his groan.

“Sorry.” Greg said. “Still no word?”

“John became a soldier. He left. And I left too. No reason to expect any contact. He’s moved on with what life he might have and so have I.”

“But the two of you . . .”

“Would it have been better for me to sit and pine for him only to receive a letter telling me he had his brains blown out.”

“Sherlock – oh, God – not every soldier gets killed. He could be somewhere safe like German or France. And be sent home without a scratch on him.” Greg winced.

“Not my karma.”

“And you believe in karma?” Greg asked.

“No, but I believe in reality. And the reality of situation is people leave. Everyone leaves and if you wish to survive you need to be prepared to leave too.”

Greg sat and stared at Sherlock for a moment. He knew he needed to say something, but the words would not solidify. Sherlock could see the struggle the policeman was having and decide for once to take pity on him.

“So you have a difficult case you need my assistance on?” Sherlock asked lightly.

“Ah, no.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as his heart dropped. “No?”

“No, I just want to come and tell you the good news. I got another promotion. I’m a Detective Inspector now.”

“But how?” Sherlock asked.

Greg laughed sourly. “I am capable of solving crimes without you. It was the cigarette robbery. It turned out to be a major smuggling ring.”

Sherlock frowned as he struggled to remember the case. He felt like his brain was turning into porridge. He couldn’t think. It was all this stupid therapy and sitting around in a circle discussing the stupidity of others. He wondered if stupidity was contagious.

“You probably don’t remember it.” Greg interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. “You were unconscious on the floor of the warehouse and spent the next few days in coma.”

Sherlock blinked. “The boxes with the tax stamps.”

“Yeah. Stolen from Heathrow.” Greg said.

Sherlock nodded his head. “Well, then congratulations, Detective Inspector.”

Greg smiled. “Thank you, Sherlock. You got me started and I really owe you a lot.”

“You do.” Sherlock said.

Greg rolled his eyes. “So what can I do for you?”

“I need – I need to work.”

Greg cocked his head to the side. “What are you good at?”

“Solving mysteries.”

“Sherlock, with your history of drug abuse, you won’t qualify for the Met.”

“I don’t want to be a policeman. I want to solve puzzles.” Sherlock snapped back.

“Solving puzzles – mysteries? Cases other detectives can’t solve?” Greg asked.

“Yes!”

“And this would help with your rehabilitation?” Greg asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“More than sitting around in a circle with idiots and discussing our feelings.” Sherlock sneered.

Greg was silent for a moment as he thought. “Alright.” He made a decision. “I’m a Detective Inspector now. With that comes some extra perks and responsibilities.”

Greg stood up and started to walk to the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re the genius. You figure it out.” Greg smiled and opened the door to leave. “Be seeing you again. And soon.”

~221~

The box of ‘cold cases’ arrived the next day. Five cases from the seventies. There was a small note inside the box.

_‘These are copies of the files. The cases are so old that if you get caught with the files, it won’t be my job. See what you can do. GL’_

Sherlock solved three of cases before lights out that night. The other two took four days and requests for access to a computer to check back issues of the Times, the Sun, and the Daily Mail. Sherlock emailed his results to Lestrade and waited.

Greg came for a visit the following weekend with another box of cold cases. These were from the nineties. Together the two men went over the information. By the end of the day, Greg Lestrade had leads on half of the cases he could follow up, and Sherlock had a new career.


	20. And Tearing Love Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John in Afhganistan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about the army or war so let's just suspend our disbelief for this chapter. Sorry if I get anything wrong.

And Tearing Love Apart

Major James Sholto slipped his dark sunglasses on as he walked out onto shooting range. His broken arm itched inside a fiberglass cast. His squad was out practicing. Four men stood roughly side by side in a lose line as John Watson stood behind them wearing hearing protection. John watched then moved up behind each man and watched over their shoulder as they fired. James noticed as John leaned in to say something to the man before they fired again. Each man listened intently to the short blond. In each case, the soldier’s aim improved and by the time they finished a magazine, they were hitting the bullseye. James was impressed.

John glanced up and saw James and smiled. James had never noticed before how open and inviting John’s face was. How his blue eyes were bright and friendly. Something twitched inside the older soldier.

“And back from the luxuries of Camp Bastion, Major Sholto.” John said with hint of teasing.

Several of the men, who were not shooting, stood up to welcome the major back. There were pats on the back and jokes and inquires on his health. It felt good to be back with his men, James thought. James glance at the young doctor then returned John’s smile. He could feel his skin flush slightly and suddenly he just wanted to be alone with John. He awkwardly turned to the men and asked.

“What’s going on?” He hoped no one noticed the uneasiness in his voice.

“Big screw up at headquarters,” Blackwood said. He was a sergeant and one of the older men in the group. “They actually sent us someone who knows how to shoot.”

Sholto raised an eyebrow at John.

“Just simple shooting practice. Something to do between patrols.” John said.

“Major, you got see the doc shoot,” Henn interrupted. “He is a dead eye. We pulled out the L11 and at four hundred meters, he’s put it in the center ring.”

The huge sniper rifle was difficult to shoot and took someone with great skill to use at such a distance.

James turned back to John and looked at him suspiciously. “If that’s true, you should be with some sniper unit or the Commandos.”

John huffed out a soft laugh. He set his hands on his hips and tipped his shoulders forward.

“Everyone keeps telling me, I’m a doctor.”

The men around them laughed. And James could see the twinkle in John’s deep blue eyes. James’ smile broaden.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing. I’ve never seen them shoot better. When’s the next mission?”

“Today. A simple house to house in the district.” John said.

“Captain Mayfield taking point?” James asked. He hoped he might have a few moments alone with John.

“No, I am.” John said. He turned to the soldiers. “Okay, that’s enough for today. Be ready to leave in half an hour. Make sure you all get something to eat before we pull out.”

The men grabbed their gear and headed back into the compound behind the sandbag walls. John started to follow them when James reached out and grabbed John’s arm.

“Wait a minute, you’re taking out the squad?” James asked confused.

“Mayfield was transferred back to Kandahar while you were at Bastion. We have three new men transferred in and I’m taking them out.” John explained.

“But you’re . . .” James had a confused look on his face.

“I’m what? A doctor? Yes I am, but I’m also the second in command at this base until you got back here. Given my rank, it was decided by Lieutenant Colonel Bennett, to have me take the men out. I’ve already done it half a dozen times. Given what happened on my first mission, he thought I was capable of taking care of a squad.”

“Shite, I leave for a few days and everyone gets delusions of grandeur.” James scoffed but a wave of apprehension crashed into him. Something he hadn’t felt since he was a new recruit.

“It’s not a delusional, if it’s the truth.” John’s smile returned letting James know he wasn’t angry about the doubt the major had about John’s abilities.

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then James glanced down at the ground. “John . . .”

“Yes, sir.” John saw James wince. He softened his voice and said, “What is it, James?”

The sound of John saying his name increased James’ uneasiness. He felt pulled to John, like a magnet.

“I didn’t get to – you know – thank you for saving my life. I was supposed to take care of you and keep you safe but I was told you stopped the Humvee you were in. If you hadn’t then the two vehicles would have been hit. More of us would have died. Then you knew where to direct the fire. It was amazing. You’re amazing.” James could feel his skin warm again.

John didn’t notice. For a moment, he was carried out of the desert and back into the streets of London. He remembered saying those exact same words to someone else. Someone very far away. Someone he cared for and thought he knew.

John twisted away from James, but the soldier saw the sadness that slipped in behind John’s relaxed expression.

“What did I say?” James asked. Anxiety he had overstepped.

“Nothing – I mean, thank you. But I’m not special or anything.” John shrugged his shoulders. “We were just lucky that I saw the men waiting in the ditch. It wasn’t amazing. Just dumb luck.”

“It was dumb luck you were there. The doctors down in Bastion said you saved Carson’s life. He should have died in that truck with Mathis. He’s alive because of you. We all are.” John’s humility was making James feel more optimistic.

John looked out over the desert. His eyes sweeping the distant grounds. “Again, I think you’re exaggerating. It’s what I’m trained to do. Just like you.” John said and turned back to James. A confident and relaxed smile had returned to John’s face. “Will you be joining us today?”

“No, can’t shoot a gun yet.” He lifted his arm and waved the cast. “I’d be no good out there if I went with you.”

“Well, then, make sure you have the tea on for when we get back.” John said.

“Do you expect biscuits too?”

“Of course.”

Then James did something spontaneous. He wrapped his arm over John’s shoulder. It wasn’t until the arm was comfortably resting on John’s shoulder did James realize he did it. He tensed expecting John to stop or jerk away from him. But the shorter man didn’t. John continued to laugh, and walked back into the compound with James, beside him.

Over the next two weeks, James waited at camp while John took the squads out. He stayed in the communications room, listening to see if there were any radio transmissions coming in from John. Then he paced just outside the gate, waiting to see the return of the squad.

He hated the patrols that kept John and squad out overnight. He never slept those nights. He laid in his bunk and wondered where John was and what he was doing. It came to him slowly after two weeks. He wanted John Watson.

After nearly two decades in the army, James had been with few soldiers. Quick hand jobs behind quarters or a blowjob in the dark. He even got to spend a week with a fellow officer in Berlin once. He had found attractive partners and longing wished for other. But he had never wanted another person like he wanted John. The simple presence of the man made Sholto’s heart quicken. The smile from those dark blue eyes made the old jaded soldier’s stomach flip.

He wanted John Watson – in his squad, in his life – in his bed.

~221~

The Humvees pulled into the edge of small community. The small houses were clustered on either side of a narrow road made of sun baked packed dirt. The mudbrick houses were darken. The doors closed and residents inside. No one was on the narrow street. Only an emaciated dog, tied to a tree with sparse leaves, greeted the men.

John waved for Hindi and Blackwood to take point. Off to John’s left, Bill Murry walked. His L85 held at the ready in front of him.

“Quiet today. Think they’re all at the match?” Bill asked as his eyes traveled from darken window to darken window.

“Maybe they’re at the pub.” John said softly back. His attention focused on the quiet houses too.

They followed the narrow road as it bent slightly to the right and saw where everyone was. Outside of one of the larger buildings were several women dressed in black burqas. Men stood closer to the doors and windows looking inside the house. When the women saw the soldiers, one rushed into the building waving her hands.

“Oh shite.” Bill Murry muttered.

An elderly man came out of the house and glared at John and his squad. He started to walk towards them, a pleading sound to his voice. A younger man in pale grey peraahan and stripped tonbaan, the long shirt and baggy trousers worn by Afghan men, came out of the house and grabbed the arm of the older man. The younger man was angry and argued with the elderly man. The older man ignored the younger man waved the soldiers over.

“Hinde?” John called out as he slowly walked closer. His eye glancing left and right suspiciously.

Hinde was of Pashtun ancestry who grew up in Birmingham. He was John’s translator.

“What’s going on?” John asked.

“The younger one doesn’t want the older one to talk to you.” Hinde said as he stepped closer to the captain.

John stepped in front of the older man and remove his dark sunglasses. The older Afghan stared into John’s eyes, then began to speak. John could tell the man was pleading with him, even if he didn’t understand the words. Henn translated.

“He is a tribal elder. His son was killed a year ago and his daughter-in-law and granddaughter still live with him.” Hinde said. The older man kept speaking. “His granddaughter was playing by the river when soldiers started shooting at the Taliban. She was hit.”

John let his L85 swing low out of his left hand. He reached up and unhooked the heavy medical backpack he was wearing.

The older man continued and Hinde interpreted. “The local doctor removed the bullet but she has a fever. She is not getting better. He is afraid she will die.”

“Where is she? Take me to her.” John said as his rifle swung on its shoulder strap and rested at his hip.

The younger Afghan waved his hand and shouted as he blocked John from entering the house. The elder man shouted back. John glanced at Henn.

“He’s the girl’s uncle. The mother’s brother. He said the man should let his granddaughter die instead of ask us for help.” Hinde said quietly in John’s ear.

John stepped up to the younger Afghan. His face hardened and his eyes blazed in anger. The younger man tried to return John’s stare but glanced away first. To cover up his surrender he spat at John’s boots before he turned and rushed off. John gave a half-hearted laugh.

“They needed to be cleaned.” He said as he walked into the darken house.

More people were inside the small dwelling. The air was sour with the smells of sweat and rot. The rooms were dark as the windows were shuttered against the noonday sun. The girl was in the front room, laying on a pallet on the floor. She looked young; maybe ten. Her skin shined from sweat. Her legs and arms were exposed and were dreadfully thin. Her left thigh was bandaged. A woman draped in her black burqa sobbed at the child’s head. When she saw John and Henn, she tried to cover the child with her own body as she shouted.

The elderly man stepped forward and stood over the prostrate woman. He barked at her and she slowly moved away from the child. John stepped forward and nodded to the grandfather, then he knelt down next to the girl.

She was feverish. Her small body was radiating heat. John pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully removed the bandage. The smell of putrefaction was strong. John opened the med kit and removed a bottle of betadine surgical scrub. He cleaned around the wound then pulled out a surgical kit. When he removed the scalpel from the kit, the mother started to scream again. But one quick word from the grandfather and the woman pulled back into a corner, where she sat crying loudly.

Carefully, John opened the wound and started to remove the necrotic tissue. As he cut, he looked for any foreign debris. After fifteen minutes, he found a small triangular piece of metal. He removed it and washed it some water from a bottle. He handed it to Henn. The grandfather and Henn carefully looked at it in the streak of sunlight coming through the shuttered windows. The older man’s face was etched with a scowl.

“Shrapnel?” Hinde asked.

“More likely a fragment from a bullet.” John said as he poured clean water into the wound.

John cleaned the wound again with betadine, then poured a clotting agent into the wound. He carefully stitched the wound close again. Then gave the child an injection of a broad-spectrum antibiotic. As John wrapped the child’s leg in bandaged he spoke to Henn who translated for him.

“The metal was causing the fever. She should get better now.”

The older man nodded his head. The child’s mother who had been crying in the corner had returned to sit vigil at the girl’s head silently.

“I’m giving you some medicine to give her. One tablet three times a day. And let her drink all the water she wants.” John said. The elderly man nodded his head.

John shoved his supplies back into the med kit. He held out several rolls of bandages to the mother but the woman wouldn’t take them. The elderly man snapped at her. Shouting something viciously at the frightened woman.

Hinde was about to translate when John said. “Don’t. I think I get the gist of what he said.”

John stood up and stepped over to the grandfather. He held out his hand. The man looked down at it then shook John’s hand.

“John Watson.” John said as he shook the tribal elder’s hand. The man nodded his head. John gave him the antibiotics and the gauze bandages. “If he needs us again, send word to the camp and ask for me.”

Hindi quickly translated to the older man and the elder nodded his head again. The silence that had filled the room was quickly pushed out as the people inside heard what John had said and what was translated to the elder. The quiet conversations between various spectators of the soldier’s compassion and care to the child.

John and Hinde walked out of the house and back into the hot desert sun. Murry and Blackwood were standing near the front door and seemed relieved to see the other two emerge from with inside. The men turned and slowly started to walk back down the street towards the waiting Humvees.

“Not is the back. Not in the back.” Blackwood mumbled to himself as they walked.

The elderly man came out shouted something and John turned back towards him. The grandfather repeated the comment.

“He said he will remember you in his prayers. He is thanking you.” Hinde said.

“Tell him he is welcome.” John said.

Hindi looked at him awkwardly for a moment then turned to the man and spoke rapidly. The man’s face remained stoic as the soldiers turned away and started to walk down the street again.

“What’s wrong.” John asked Hinde.

“Nothing really, it’s just the translation.”

“What do you mean?”

“In Pashtun, the phrase for you’re welcome in close to ‘you came in peace’. It just seemed odd to say to him. Especially after we just pulled part of bullet out his granddaughter’s leg.” Hinde said.

“I could see where that would be ironic.” John said.

Suddenly, the crackle of gunfire made the men duck and rush to the sides of the road. A bullet hit the mudbricks near John and stung his face with shards of broken brick. Bill Murry tripped and fell to the ground with a loud grunt. John reached out and grabbed the webbing on the man’s back and pulled him behind the corner of the building with him.

“You all right!?” John shouted.

“Yeah.” Bill shouted as he struggled to get up into a kneeling position.

John looked across the road at Blackwood and Hindi. Both men were hiding behind a low wall.

“Do you see them?” John shouted at them.

“Roof top to the left.” Blackwood said. The he rolled over onto his left shoulder and fired his rifle over the top of the wall.

John leaned around the building and fired too. The enemy returned fire and John and Blackwood took cover again. John could hear shouting and sound of running feet.

“They’re coming in!” he shouted to men. John wondered where the rest of the squad was. Did they hear the gunfire and were making their way to them? Or had they been ambushed too and were now lying dead somewhere in the small community?

John glanced around the corner and saw men slipping between the buildings and sneaking up on Blackwood and Hindi. He whistled and Blackwood glanced over at him. John pointed to where he had seen the two men. He waved two fingers and then turned his hand upside down and made the universal symbol for walking. Blackwood nodded his head and twisted around, rolling over the top of Hinde and moving to intercept the men sneaking up on them.

More gunfire brought John’s attention back to the main road. He leaned around the corner of the building and fired again. Then quickly slipped back before the enemy were able to target him.

“Murry! Get up and go back around the corner towards the elder’s house. Make sure we are not getting boxed in here. And try to make contact with Bravo. Find out where the hell they are.”

Bill Murry nodded his head and ran between the buildings, hunched down to circle around to where they were. John leaned around the corner again and returned fire. He looked up just as he saw Blackwood kill the two men who were moving between the buildings. John fired again and the action on his gun locked open on an empty magazine.

John swung back around the building and leaned up against the dirt wall. His heart was pounding in his chest and he was breathing hard. He closed his eyes for a moment to try and slow everything down. To just get his breathing under control. When he opened his eyes, the younger Afghan was standing in front of him. A large knife in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill Murry is the name Arthur C. Doyle used in the story "A Study in Scarlett". It was the name he gave the man who saved John's life. The names of Blackwood and Hinde come from the wonderful "Two Two One Bravo Baker" story of Abundantlyqueer.


	21. So Don’t Come Back for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is attacked.

So Don’t Come Back for Me

The man held the knife out in front of him. He glared at John. His face twisted up into a distorted mask of hate. John shouldered his rifle but the magazine was empty. The bolt was locked back. The trigger wouldn’t even pull. The man shouted and ran forward. He waved the knife side to side as he rushed towards John, squatting on the ground next to the wall.

John blocked the knife with the barrel of the gun, but the shoulder-strap limited movement with the gun. John also was at a disadvantage crouching down on his heels. The man towered over John and could use his weight to push the knife pass the waving gun. The man grabbed the end of the barrel with his free hand and yanked it up and out of way. He plunged forward again, aiming the knife for John’s chest.

John kicked out with his foot, knocking the man back but also throwing John off balance. John fell to the ground, tangled underneath his attacker. The knife missed John’s chest but sliced through the meaty part of his thigh. John grunted but more in anger than in pain.

The man yanked the knife from John’s leg and pushed himself back from the soldier. He raised the knife up again to attack. John sprawled across the ground, stared at the bloody knife-edge. He saw his own blood staining the blade. The man took a step forward then collapsed to the ground. The knife tossed from his hand. John looked up surprised to see the grandfather standing behind the man holding a gun. The sound of the gunshot almost lost among the other shots around them.

John looked up surprised at the old man. The tribal elder looked down at John then raised the rifle up for the soldier to see. A Russian Mosin-Nagant. An old bolt-action rifle. 

“Mujahideen.” The old man said.

John sat up and nodded his head. Mujahideen were the fierce Afghan fighters from the Soviet-Afghan War. The gun the man had was probably forty years old but was still lethal.

“Mujahideen.” John nodded and gave a small wave as he grabbed his bleeding leg with the other.

The man looked down on the dead body of his daughter-in-law’s brother. He spat at the dead man and turned and walked away.

The other gunfire slowly deceased. Only one or two shots then silence. John looked down for his bloody leg. He grabbed the canvas on either side of the hole and pulled it apart. The gash in his leg was about three inches long and just as deep. It was in the meat of his leg and missed the bone altogether.

“Blackwood!” John shouted.

“Clear!”

John heard the man shout back. “Murry! Hinde!”

“Clear, clear.” John heard distantly.

“Someone get the fuck over here!” John shouted.

Blackwood came running around the corner of the building and saw John leaning up against the wall. His canvas trousers torn and bloody.

“Bullet?” Blackwood said as he slung his rifle back and reached for John’s med pack.

“Knife.” John waved at the dead body a few paces off from him.

Blackwood saw the man and then noticed the bloody knife laying in the dirt. He glanced at John’s rifle and noticed it was empty.

“Did you?”

“No.” John took the pack from Blackwood and started to pull out the supplies needed to stitch himself up.

The rest of the squad came to where John and Blackwood were. They watched as John poured ‘Quick-clot’ into the wound. Murry asked who had killed the man with the knife, John said he didn’t know.

John had himself sewn up and bandaged in a few minutes. With the help of his men, he hobbled back to the Humvee. There he injected only enough morphine into himself to take the edge off. Then he directed the men to take them back to camp.

~221~

James Sholto had been in the communication room when the call came in from Bravo squad that they were under attack. Sholto radioed back asking about the whereabouts of Captain Watson and the reply was ‘unknown’. Twenty minutes later the radio call came in that squad had pushed the enemy back and were returning to the camp. The only casualty was Captain Watson. Sholto almost screamed.

He was pacing in the compound, waiting, as the two Humvees returned. They drove in pass the guard posts and around the blast wall. The lead Humvee stopped right beside the Major. James could see John sitting in the front seat with a large grin on his face.

James wasn’t sure if he was going kiss John or punch him in the face. He rushed forward and yanked the door open. He immediately saw the reddish-brown stain streaked down John’s torn trousers. John’s hands were stained.

“What happened!?” James demand.

“Got in the middle of a family disagreement. Relative took a knife to my leg.” John said.

The other men of the squad were getting out of the vehicle. Murry and Blackwood stepped closer and asked John if he needed help getting out.

“No, I’ll be find. Just sore right now.” John twisted in the front seat and set both feet on the ground. He winced slightly as he stood up. Then stumbled forward as James caught him.

“You sure?” James asked as he pushed John to stand up.

“Yeah, not a problem at all.” John swayed slightly.

James was sure he was going to punch John. “Get yourself cleaned up and report to my quarters in ten minutes.” He ordered, then turned and marched off towards the communication warren.

John watched as the man left. Murry turned to John and asked. “What’s his problem?”

“Don’t know but I’m going to find out.” John said.

John set his pack down in his tent and scrubbed the blood off his hands. Changing his uniform was out of question, so he just splashed some water on his face. He limped into the Communication warren. The small amount of morphine that John took reduced the pain but not completely. His leg still hurt but he was now feeling giddy.

John stood outside the Sholto’s quarters. He cleared his throat and called out. “Major.”

“Enter,” was the single response John received.

Pulling the drape back, John limbed slightly into the major’s quarters. James had been pacing inside his quarters. His hands had dragged through his hair enough times that the ginger strands were wild. His turquoise blue eyes were bright and shining. He glanced at John as the younger man limbed in. The blood dried brownish on the desert fatigues. James frowned and asked.

“Are you in pain?”

“Not bad, but I could do with some paracetamol.” John couldn’t help the broad smile on his face.

James looked away and started to pace some more. “I should have been there with you.”

“It was an ambush. You couldn’t have done anything to help. We handled it.” John said calmly.

“I should have been there with you.”

John lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. He felt insulted. “I can take care of my men and myself.”

“I know you can, but I should have been there for you.”

James suddenly moved and stepped closer. John stepped back and felt the dirt wall at his back. James stepped within John’s personal space but didn’t touch the man. He didn’t do anything overt.

“You make me want things, John Watson.”

John could feel the warmth coming off of James’ body. It stirred something inside John that had been dormant for many months. Maybe even years.

“What do you want, Major.” The morphine had lowered John’s inhibitions.

“Don’t – don’t call me that. Not now – unless you don’t want this. You don’t want to know exactly how I feel and what I want from you.”

“What do you want, James.” John asked. His voice dipping lower as his eyes darkened. There was a warmth in John’s belly. He licked his lips.

“Things that would get me court marshalled.” James said. He leaned closer and leaned his head to the side so he could whisper into John’s ear. “Things I should never do with a subordinate.”

“Tell me.” John whispered. His pulse rate increased. He could feel a hunger begin to build. A need. Something he hadn’t fed since leaving England. Something that had been hidden away for long time.

James leaned close enough so their bodies were touching. “I want to know how you taste. What it would be like to kiss you and swallow your breath. How you taste as I sucked you off. I want to know what sounds you make when you are begging for release. What it would feel like to bend you over my bunk and fuck you hard and fast.”

John cocked his head to the side and lifted the corner of his mouth in a cocky smile. “I’ve been wondering that too.”

James leaned back and turned so he could look John directly in his eyes. “Nothing’s happened yet. Nothing that would get anyone into trouble.”

“It would only be trouble if someone else found out about it.” John whispered. “Or if you made it complicated.”

“John?” James looked pensively at John. He wanted John, but he needed to know that there would be no misunderstandings. “What do you want?”

“What you suggested sounds good to me.”

James lunged forward, as John turned his head slightly, so James kissed the corner of John’s mouth. John reached up and wrapped his arms around the James’ shoulders and pulled the man tight. John tipped his chin up and James attacked John’s throat. Nips and bruising kisses that turned into long slow sucks.

“Fuck, I want to see it.” John groaned.

“Do it.” James growled as he tried to kiss John’s mouth again, only for John to tip his face down and away.

John’s hands grabbed James’ waistband. He quickly opened the buttons on James’ trousers and pulled his pants down. John slipped the underwear’s elastic band behind James’ balls. The man’s swollen prick was pulling away from the dark reddish-brown curls.

John wrapped his hand around the man’s length and gave it a firm tug. James groaned and collapsed forward into John.

“Fast – do it fast, not hard.” James gasped as John stoked the man’s cock.

“I want it slow and tight.”

James fumbled with John’s fly but got it open. He grabbed John’s prick with his good hand and started slow and steady.

“Fuck – yeah, that works.” John growled.

The two men tipped their head down and watches as they gave each other hand jobs. The background sound of the communication warren buzzed around them as they grunted and moaned quietly.

“John, I’ve wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you fire your rifle.” James whispered into John’s ear.

“The look you gave me on the firing range – I thought you were going to bend me over right there.”

“I wanted to.” James admitted.

James pulled his hand away and John hissed. But James quickly spit in his palm and returned to John’s prick. He sped up his strokes and gave a little twist over the end. John almost shouted. He tossed his head back and it hit the dirt wall.

“Fuck!” John hissed. “That’s – that’s perfect!”

He sped up the strokes he was giving James. James felt his muscles tighten as the fire spilled into his veins. He bit down on John’s shoulder to stop himself from shouting. As he came his stokes on John became disorganized and his grip increased. He squeezed John then gave a violent tug. John was coming too. He was panting heavily was he watch his and James’ release spray out between the two of them.

James leaned forward and pressed his chest into John’s. He turned his head and placed a light kiss to John’s neck.

“Next time, I want to suck you off.” James whispered.

“I can live with that.” John said with a soft breath of air.

Carefully, John put himself back together and wiped his hand on his bloody trousers. James stepped back and went to grab his towel from his kit. He wiped down his own hand and prick, then quickly dressed.

John looked up at the older man and smirked. “Is there anything else, sir?”

James looked back at John and his lascivious smile. “I should smack that look off you your face, soldier.”

“But?”

“But I would prefer to fuck it off.” James returned John’s smile.

“Later.”

“I expect nothing less.”

John left the major’s quarters and stumbled into his own tent outside the communication warren. He stepped into the heat and darkness of the tent. He collapsed onto his bunk and immediately fell asleep.

When he woke in the morning, he felt awful. His skull was pounding with a headache and the knife wound in his leg was painful. His skin was gritty and dirty. He was sweating and his clothes were stiff with dried blood. He took off his shirt and then opened his trousers. The smell of sex hit him and he immediately was transported back to a bed in a flat in London. A late morning of lying in with Sherlock.

John collapsed on the edge of the bunk with his trousers down around his ankles. He remembered what he had done the day before with Sholto. John’s mouth was dry. No matter how many times he tried to make enough spit to swallow, his throat burned. Regret pulled at him. He wondered if anyone else knew what they had done. He worried about his future. But most of all he wondered where Sherlock was now.

~221~

In an attempt to avoid James Sholto, John had insisted that he needed to go back to the village and check on the young girl. He had explained to Colonel Bennett that the tribal elder had sought them out and it was a wonderful opportunity for soldiers to build a good relationship with the Afghans. Bennett agreed and ignored Sholto’s objections. The next day, John’s squad returned to the village.

They dove the Humvees into the village, and stationed men in around them looking for another ambush. John, Murry, Blackwood and Hindi walked closer to the buildings than last time, making sure they were less of a target for snipers.

This time they saw people milling around the open doors of the houses. They could hear the sounds of various conversations taking place behind walls. But the villagers were hesitant to come forward. As soon as they saw the soldiers they rushed into their houses and closed the doors. Bolted the windows. They seemed scared of the men. John was confused. He had thought after they had helped save the child’s life they would be more welcome.

John, Murry, Blackwood and Hinde slowly walked around the last corner where the tribal elder’s house was. But the house was a scorched ruin.

John scrutinized the burnt shell of the building. The wooden shutters were gone. The roof had caved in. The door sag on its hinges. Smoke and soot stained the plastered walls.

“Hinde find out what happened.” John said as he eyes quickly searched the area for a face he recognized.

Hinde went up to a group of older men standing together at the edge of the road. He spoke to them and one man waved his hand out towards the desert. Hindi nodded and rushed back over to John and the men.

“We should leave.” Hinde said.

“What happened?” John insisted.

“The uncle of the girl was Taliban. When they found out the older man had killed the uncle saving you, they came for him. He was murdered in the house and then they set the house on fire.” Hinde explained.

“What about the girl?” John asked. He glanced at the burnt hovel.

“They took her out to the desert. She wasn’t worth a bullet. They took her out there and killed her.” Hindi whispered.

John gripped his rifle tighter. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. The kid and her mother. They’re gone. One of the young men followed and watched them being murdered. He came back and told the elders. They want us to go. They blame us for this.”

John felt sick. He turned and looked at the elders who were now shouting at him. He didn’t know what they were saying but it was obvious they wanted the soldiers to leave.

John turned and walked back down the street. Murry, Blackwood and Hinde took up positions around the captain as they left.

They drove back to the camp in silence. No one said a word.


	22. But I’ve Grown Too Strong to Ever Fall Back in Your Arms

But I’ve Grown Too Strong to Ever Fall Back in Your Arms

Sholto had learned what happened at the village before John and the men had returned. He went to John’s tent. The heat inside the tent was stifling. It smelled of sweat and dust and canvas. John was standing - his hands on his hips, looking straight ahead.

“John are you alright?” he asked.

John didn’t say anything. He brought his hand up to face and covered his eyes with his palm.

“John?” James started, unsure what to say. “You’re a soldier. You’ve seen atrocities before.”

John shuddered once then pulled his hand away. He lifted his head and stared at James.

James studied John’s face. His expression was indifferent but James knew that was just a mask. He could feel the slight tremble in John’s body. The will power John was exerting to remain indifferent – distant. Mechanical. John’s mouth was a thin line of determination and control. His jaw flexed as he held back his anger and sadness. But the most horrible thing to James was the blankness of John’s usually bright blue eyes. They were empty and cold.

James leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead, but John didn’t respond to it. Slowly, he kissed John’s cheek then moved to John’s mouth.

“No.” John whispered. “Don’t.”

“John?” James felt a crushing weight on his chest.

“Look, last night . . .” John glanced away then back at the soldier. “Let’s not make anything about it, okay?”

James tipped his chin up defiantly. John continued.

“I had injected myself with morphine. I know I shouldn’t have while we were still on patrol, but, well my leg hurt like hell and I just did it. It made me loopy. My better judgement was compromised.”

James felt the punch to his soul. “There is nothing you should apologize for.”

“Nor you, sir.” John said. “Like I said last night. No one needs to know and there is no reason to make a big deal about it.”

But it was a big deal to James. He did care. He wanted John, but not this John. This cold and unfeeling John.

“The girl?” James whispered.

He saw the jerk of John’s body. The slight tremor becoming more pronounced. John flexed his jaw muscles again and James thought he could hear John’s teeth grinding.

“It’s war, major. Innocent people get hurt in war. Sometimes killed.”

“John?”

“If there is nothing you need, major, I would like to lay down for a while. It’s been a rough two days and my leg is hurting.”

James eyes darted down to John’s thigh. Then back up to the man’s dead eyes.

“If you need anything, John, please let me . . .”

“No reason to worry yourself, sir.” John said mechanically.

James left the tent hating that he had to.

~221~

It had been weeks since the girl and her family was murdered. No one was held accountable for it. There had been rumors and there had been claims, but nothing proven. It sickened John and he requested to be transferred out.

Something about finding the murderers made John think of Sherlock again. He wondered if he tried to reach out to Sherlock asking for help with the case that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would speak to him. Not knowing what else to do, he sat down and wrote the letter. He mailed it to the Chemistry department at his university. Maybe they would be able to know where Sherlock was. Maybe Sherlock was finally teaching at the school.

With trembling fingers, John put the envelope into the mail bag. He knew it would be weeks before he heard back from Sherlock. He waited.

Nothing came.

Not even his letter returned to him. He never heard a word from Sherlock or the school. Or even Sherlock’s interfering brother. It crushed what little hope was left for Sherlock and himself.

After a month, John realized the army was all he had. His only family. His life. He resolved to make it the best life he could have.

~221~

John stood staring out at the flat patch of ground to the south east of the camp. It was broad and flat and reasonably free of stones. A smile came to his face.

“What are you up too?” James asked as he watched John started to call various patrols together.

“Time for fun.” John smiled.

James looked up at the sky and saw the blueish clouds rolling down the sides of the mountains. “Rains coming.”

“That won’t stop a match.” John grabbed his quanco and ran out into the middle of the field. Cheers and shouts came up as several men followed John out. A cloud of dust following them. They split haphazardly into two teams. There’s no real distinction between one side to the other. John ran towards the middle and dropped the rugby ball on his foot. He kicked towards one group of men and the rugby match was on.

It was rough horseplay. Full force tackles and running blocks. John’s team got the ball back after a ruck and he was off. John’s speed and experienced kept him from being stopped. He ran from one end of the field to the other – through elbows and kicks. Tackles and shouts. Whooping and laugher. James shouting John’s name the entire time.

The next scrum, James joined in. As the ball was thrown into the middle of the group, the first rain drops fell. The game continued. The other team scored and the field became a muddy mess. Even Colonel Bennett came out to watch as the men dove into the game full hearted. The war was forgotten for a few hours. The men shared a few moments of without fear.

The game dissolved into something more primal and more exhilarating. John running as hard as he ever ran. His squad blocking and protecting him. James running with him – cheering him on.

The rain fell and the field became a slick muddy pitch. The men continued. Sliding and grabbing each other as they chased and tackled each other. When the game was over, the men were better for it. James walked up and wrapped his arm over John’s shoulder.

“That was fuck’n fantastic.” He grunted into John’s ear.

John smiled. Pale brown mud smeared across his face. James wanted to kiss that face. He wanted to wrap John up tight and hold him close. John leaned in closer and wrapped his arm around James’ waist. It caused a tightness in James’ body as he felt a tingle in his groin. John was holding him. He was touching him.

Together the men walked to the river and washed as much of the mud off as they could. The relaxed and the unrestricted behavior continued. John stripped down naked and jumped into the river, washing himself in the cool muddy water. James stood on the bank and watched. A spike of lust settling inside him. He watched as John swam around then climbed back up on the bank.

“Wish I had clean fatigues to put on.” John said and he grabbed his trousers.

He kicked his leg through the sodden clothing and slipped it on. John was still naked from the chest up. The muddy water of the river slid down the curves of his muscles and over his tan skin. James stood beside him and watched.

“So what brought that on?” James asked.

“What?” John glanced up as he dragged his hand through his wet hair.

“Rugby?”

John glanced out at the men in the river. Some were dressed still in their fatigues. Some were shirtless. Others were animalistic naked like John had been.

“It was needed.” John said as he smiled out at the men. “We needed it. Just a few hours of being . . . not soldiers.”

James gave a weak smile, “We’re always soldiers.”

“Yeah, but it’s nice to not have to think about it for a moment.” John said as he turned back to the major.

James felt the need to ask John something he had been afraid to ask since he had learned of John’s request for transfer.

“Are you going to stay?”

John scrutinized James’s expression. “Bennett tell you I wanted to leave?”

“Yes, after the girl’s death. He’s been delaying the transfer hoping you’d change your mind?”

John shrugged and looked back out over the men. His hands fumbled with his muddy t-shirt.

“I thought that I could do more good back at Bastion or in Kandahar but now . . .” He looked out at the laughing and shouting men. “Now I think I can do good here.”

“I know you can.” James said with a smile.

John returned a lop-sided smile.

The two men turned and started to walk back into the compound. The sounds from the river fading as they walked behind the sandbag walls protecting the camp.

“So are we friends again?” James asked off-handedly.

John paused and looked up at the ginger haired man. “Of course.”

“It was just after you came back from finding out about the girl’s death, you were . . .”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” John glanced away for a moment. “I acted like a prick about the other.”

“It was understandable if I took advantage of you.”

John gave a half-hearted laugh. More breath than sound. “Don’t – don’t think I didn’t know what I was doing. I could have told you to stop. I could have walked away.”

James looked carefully at John. “But you didn’t.”

“No I didn’t and . . .” John glanced around them to see if anyone was listening to them. “And I’m glad I didn’t. It wasn’t just you. I want it too. I wanted us to do that.”

James felt his mouth water and he licked his cracked lips. He could taste mud on them from the field. He knew he was covered in it and needed a bath, but he needed to hear what John was saying more.

“Does that mean that . . .”

John reached up and grabbed James’ forearm. The same arm he had broken in the IED explosion months before now healed and strong as before.

“Don’t. No plans, no expectation.” John said.

James nodded his head, but he knew he would always plan for John to be in his life. He just need to convince John of that fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the wonderful comments.


	23. You’re Going to Catch a Cold from the Ice Inside Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John in Afghanistan.

You’re Going to Catch a Cold from the Ice Inside Your Soul

John had returned from patrol when James met him in the compound.

“I received a bottle of scotch from an old friend back home. Want to crack the seal with me?” James whispered to John. Alcohol was complete forbidden in Afghanistan, but many soldiers found ways to sneak it in.

John smiled broadly and nodded his head. He followed James down into the maze of the communication warren. They walked into major’s quarters and James retrieved the bottle for his duffle bag. He poured the golden-brown liquid into John’s and his mess kit cups. They sat down on camp chairs and savored the ‘illegal' alcohol.

“How was patrol?” James asked.

“Fine. Brief skirmish east of Chughak. Nothing bad.”

John tipped his tin cup up. Capturing the very last drops of the scotch on his tongue. James watched as the muscle in John’s throat rippled and the bob of his Adam’s Apple. James licked his lips.

John set the cup back down and James reached over to pour another serving for John.

“No, I shouldn’t.” John said, waving the bottle away.

“Why not?” James asked.

“My judgement gets wonky when I drink.”

“How so?”

John glanced up at the other soldier. “I react instead of consider.”

“Maybe that would be a good thing,” James said as he poured himself another cup. He sipped the liquor from his own tin cup.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I do crazy spontaneous things.”

James glanced up at John. “So if I asked you to go to bed with me, you would?”

“I thought we weren’t going to bring up that night.” John said looking sideways at John.

“I’m never going to forget how good it was between the two of us. How good it felt.”

John nodded in agreement then stared at the major for a moment. A frown formed on his face. “Don’t tease me.”

“Never, John.”

John watched the man for a moment longer then looked away. “I don’t sleep around. I’m not a whore.”

“I never said you were,” James said. His turquoise eyes now hooded. “I want you, John and I want you to want me.”

John blinked his eyes. They stung with unshed tears. “I want to wanted.”

“Always,” whispered James.

John felt a warmth sweep through him.

~221~

A week later, Henn came running to John’s tent.

“Doc, you’re needed in the communication room.”

John looked up from cleaning his rifle. The sides of the tent were rolled up to allow a slight breeze through but it didn’t diminish the sweltering heat by much. Sweat streaked down John’s face and dripped on the disassembled gun.

“What is it?” He asked as his hands quickly put the rifle back together.

“It’s the major,” Henn said.

John rushed past the corporal and to the partial buried communication warren. John tripped down the stairs and into the room. Colonel Bennett was standing next to the radio operator.

“Six Nine Two Charlie Alpha, confirm location.” Bennett spoke loudly into the microphone.

The sound of gunfire crackled loudly in the room. A young man’s voice came over the radio.

“Three clicks north of Kajaki Dam. In a wadi. Near the ruins of a settlement.” The young man relayed the coordinates.

In the background, John heard James’ voice. “Where is the damn airstrike?! Get their asses in the air!”

John stepped close to one of the other soldiers in the room. “What happened?”

“It was an ambush. Six Nine Two Charlie Alpha was patrolling north of the river and they were trapped. The insurgents have rocket launchers. Took out the chopper that was supposed to be picking up the squad.”

The sound of gunfire came over the open microphone and filled the communication room.

“Sangin, this is six nine two. Request . . .”

More gunfire and then James voice shouting. “Incoming!”

There is the sound of an explosion. The communication room stills. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on the radio.

“Sangin, Sangin, this is six nine two requesting aerial assistance at location.” It was James Sholto’s voice on the radio.

“Apache in bound,” Bennett said into the microphone.

John’s heart raced. He could only let his imagination fill in the details of what James and his men were going through.

James voice came through the radio again. “Strafe in one.” The whirling sound of the 30mm chain gun of the Apache helicopter started up.

John wondered what happened to the first soldier who was using the radio. His thoughts went to the worse. He remembered the young soldier’s face. Barely out of his teens. The man had a girlfriend back home. John felt sick.

The radio went silent. The room was silent. No one said a word. In his head, John counted off the various actions James needed to take.

The Apache strafed the enemy and allowed the transport helicopter to land. James ordered his men to move back. They’d move back in small groups. The enemy shooting at them the entire time. James ordered his men to return fire. Then they get on the chopper. Some men get on while others protect them. The time drags out as the men get on before it can fly out of there. It sounded so simple and was so incredibly hard. The seconds tick by. It had been a minute and no word over the radio. Then two minutes. Then five.

Suddenly the radio crackled and a new and different voice is heard.

“Sangin, Sangin. This is RAF660, we have six nine two on board. Returning ETA thirty minutes.”

John stepped forward. Fear etched in his features. Bennett looked at the doctor and queued up the microphone.

“Casualties?”

There was silence. Then the report. “Six wounded. Two need to be transferred to Bastion.”

“Divert to Bastion with all passengers.” Bennett ordered.

“Affirmative, Sangin, RAF660 out.”

John stepped forward. “Permission to go . . .”

“Denied,” Bennett said, cutting John off. “You need to be here in case we are called out.”

John wanted to argue with his commanding officer but he knew the man was right. He was needed at Sangin and there would be nothing he could do for James that couldn’t be done by Aubrey. He stepped back.

“Yes, sir.”

~221~

Six hours later the transport helicopter from Bastion touched down just outside the camp at Sangin. John stood by the sandbag wall as the propeller wash kicked up the scorching sand and dirt. Four men got off the helicopter, ducking their heads as they ran across the ground. John’s eye studied each man’s face until he came to the last man. The round and tanned face of James.

James smiled broadly at John. His eyes hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses.

John scowled – his lips thin and his eyes narrowed. He jerked his head slightly and then marched into the camp. James cocked his eyebrow and followed John.

They went into the warren and followed the narrowing halls and sandbag walls down to James’ quarters. James removed his sunglasses in the dimmer light. He watched John’s back curiously. John led James into his own quarters.

“John, what’s your . . .”

John spun and pushed James up against the sandbag wall. He pressed his body into James’. John reached up and ran his fingertips down the side of James’ face.

“I could have lost you.” John whispers. His voice tight with something merging anger, regret, and fear together.

“But you didn’t.” James breathed out. He could feel the press of John’s body against his.

“I’ve lost so many I’ve cared about. I don’t want to lose another.”

James’ tongue slips out behind wind-cracked lips. As he licked his lips, John’s eyes flicked down to watch.

“John, it could happen to anyone of us. It could happen to you.”

John’s eyes are still focused on James’ lips. He leans forward until the two men are sharing the same breathes.

“I don’t care about me, I care about you.” John licked his own lips, mirroring James’ movements. “I need you.”

James’ pulse rate increased as his eyes dilated. “John.” The single word sounds more like a plea than a wish.

John pushed forward and kissed James hard. Demanding and possessive. James doesn’t want to but he relinquished control to the blond. John dips his face and bites kisses down James’ sweat and dirt streaked throat.

James tipped his head back to grant John better access. “Does this mean you’re going to top?” he gasped.

“Is that a deal breaker?” John asked as he leans back to focus on James’ turquois blue eyes.

“Not if you let me fuck you next time.”

“Deal.”

The men grab at each other. The attempt to remove clothing turns to more of a wrestling match for control. John finally pinned a partially naked James to the floor. For a heartbeat, the two men stare at each other. For a moment John feels a moment of desolation. Of regret. He leaned into the pain and regret. Then James smiled and his blue-green eyes twinkled at John.

This was not the time for guilt. It was a moment to be relieved they were alive.

John came inside James’ body while his hand was wrapped around James’ length. The warm release spread across his fingers. The two men stayed still on the single cot for a few more moments. Spooned together on the narrow bed. Cocooned within their own world. It felt wonderful for James. Everything he had wanted. Everything he had fantasized.

He was falling asleep when he felt John twist and sit up.

“Where are you going?” James asked. A spike of anxiety woke him.

“To my tent.” John said as he grabbed for his pants and trousers.

“Stay.”

“That would be a bad idea. I should go before anyone finds us.”

“No one will say anything. It’s alright.”

“I would prefer to sleep in my tent.” John said as he slipped on his shirt.

“I’ll come with you.” James offered.

“Better not. It’ll draw too much attention.” John grabbed his boots.

“John?” James sat up.

“I’ll be back, James. Don’t worry. I’ll be back here with you.” He gave a weak smile.

It was seemed so inadequately but James was willing to take it. Anything to be with John. 

~221~

So it began. At first it was only once a week. An occasional hand job or James sucking John off. Then it grew to two and three times a week. Trading off who was on the bottom and who was on top. The two of them grappled to remove each other’s clothing. They pushed and shoved until they laid on the hard floor, panting and spent.

They went on patrols and got into small skirmishes. They practiced at the rifle range and complained about the food. It was their lives. The insane and implausible existence. Every moment together was an affirmation of life – of surviving.

After one evening, John laid on James’ cot, naked. The older man slowly traced his finger over scars on John’s back.

“These look like burns.” He said cautiously.

“Cigarette burns,” John hummed. He was relaxed after a wonderful orgasm. “My dad.”

“He burned you?” James asked pulling John closer to him. An overwhelming need to protect seemed to take hold of him. He dragged his fingers through John’s sun-bleached blond hair.

“He was a bastard. Broke my arm once. Did worse to my sister.” John snuggled closer to James. John’s face nuzzling into James’ throat. The older soldier enjoyed the sensation. He kissed John’s temple.

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Yeah, but we lost touch with each other years ago.”

“Didn’t like the idea of you joining up?”

“Never got to that point. She took off when I was school. My boyfriend didn’t like the idea of me joining the army.” John mumbled.

“Boyfriend?” this was the first James had heard that there could be someone waiting for John back home.

“He wouldn’t use that word, but yeah. He took off too. All alone now.”

“No, you’re not.” James kissed John’s temple again.

“What about you?” John leaned back slightly and focused his eyes on James. “Anyone waiting for you?”

“Had a wife once.” James said. “She didn’t like the army and didn’t like the moving around and finally didn’t like me.”

“So we’re the same.” John said.

James looked into John’s blue eyes. Deep and dark. James wanted to dive into their depths. He wanted to drown in John’s eyes.

“Yeah, the same. You and me.” James leaned forward to kiss John’s mouth, but the younger man twisted out of James’ arms and sat on the edge of the cot. “Don’t leave.”

“I’ve got morning patrol. Zero five thirty.”

“Stay here. I’ll wake you in time.”

John shook his head and stood up. “Better if I get some sleep in my own rack.”

“John are you ever going to stay?”

John turned and looked sadly at James. “If I did, I might never leave.”

“Would that be bad?”

“Long term relationships don’t work for me.” John said as he grabbed his clothes. “I guess I’m supposed to be alone.”

“You can’t believe that. I don’t believe that.” James said sitting up.

“Believe what you want. But I still have to be ready to leave at zero-five-thirty. I’ll see you when we get back.”

“Promise?” James asked. He hated how much it sounded like he was begging.

“Promise.” John said with a wink.

~221~

On the fifth month, James received his new orders. He had been expecting them and now that he had the orders, he wanted to move forward. He wanted more. He went to John’s tent to tell him his plans.

“I’m being moved upstairs.” James said as soon as he was under the shade of John’s tent.

John had rolled up the sides of the tent and let the desert breezed blow through the stuffy tent. John was standing up and seemed surprised by James’ news.

“When?”

“I’m rotating back to England in five weeks, then I’ll have two months off before I’m promoted.”

John glanced away and seemed to be calculating the remaining of the time the two of them would have together. He looked back at James. There was disappointment in John’s eyes and the thought that John would miss him made James feel bolder.

“I guess congratulations is in order. Any idea where they will send you?” John asked.

“No, I don’t think it will be here. Maybe Iraq or maybe some place safer. Germany, maybe even England.”

John gave a weak smile. “England? Well, I’m happy for you. You’ll make a good lieutenant colonel. I’ll miss – we’ll all miss you.”

“I don’t want to leave you, John.”

John laughed softly. “I think you will have to. You can’t just roll me up and pack me in your duffle.”

“No, but there is an option.” James said. He had practiced this conversation dozens of times. Played out all of John’s arguments so he could defend against them. He wanted this. Needed it. He prayed he could convince John.

“What option? I’m stationed here for another six months.”

“Marriage.”

“What?!” John looked shocked.

“John, you are the only thing I care about in this world. I’ve never felt more for anyone or anything that I feel for you. I want to go to sleep next to you and I want to wake up with you in my arms. I want to kiss you, John. Kiss you on the mouth and I want you to kiss me back. Marry me. It’s okay now. No one would refuse us. And being a lieutenant colonel, they would give my spouse a billet near me. We could leave together. You could finally get to be a doctor again. A real doctor. We could be in England together.” James took a step towards John. His arms out, ready to wrap the man up into them.

John’s expression changed from good natured to stoic. He took a sudden step backwards, away from James.

“No.”

“What? No? You can’t meant that.”

“I mean it. No!” John growled.

“But we care for each other. We mean something to each other. You said you were falling for me. I want to take care of you. Keep you safe. Marry me.”

John started to pace in the small confines of the tent. “No, I won’t. I was mistaken. I don’t care for you.”

“You’re lying.” James almost shouted.

“We were two men who fucked. We didn’t mean any more to each other than that.”

“We are soldiers!” James growled. “We are brothers in blood. If we don’t care for each other then who is going to care for us.”

“Then go and marry one of the other men.”

“John!” James shouted. He knew he was losing control. He could feel his future slipping through his fingers like water. “Please, listen to me. I know this is a shock to you, but you had to know how I felt. And I know you felt the same way.”

“Believe what you want, but no I won’t marry you or anyone. I don’t believe in love anymore. It’s a trap. We helped each other. And it felt good – damn fucking good. But it was physical and nothing else.” John returned to pacing.

James’ fears came roaring forward. The idea he had kept buried for weeks spilled out before him. John was lying. He was lying to himself.

“You can’t mean that. You don’t. If you didn’t believe in love then you would have let me kiss your mouth. You would have stayed in my bed until the morning. You do love someone but not me. You’re an idiot, John. Where is he now? I know he doesn’t write to you. You don’t get any mail. You never take any calls or emails. So where is this great love of yours? And why is he better than me? What the hell can he do for you that I don’t? I mean if ignoring and treating you like shite is what gets you going, then I can be a bastard too.” James was shouting now and the other soldiers around the camp heard what was being said.

“Shut up! You don’t know what you are talking about!” John spun and looked like he was going to attack the Major.

“I don’t care what you say John. I will always love you. I will always be there for you. And when you finally pull that head of yours out of your arse, I will still be there for you. Someday you will want to be in my bed. You will want me to kiss you. And someday, you will wear my ring. You’ll choose me because whoever he is, I’ll have treated you better than he did.”

“Get out!” John shouted. “Get the fuck out!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way soldier!” James growled darkly.

“Fine, I’ll leave and you can fuck yourself.”

John darted under the raised flap of the tent and marched away. He shoved pass the other men standing around who had heard the fight between him and Major Sholto.

James stood under the tent as he watched John stomp away. He wanted to punch himself. He knew he had handled the situation badly. But he also knew he wouldn’t leave Sangin without John. They would be together. It was the only future that James Sholto could see for himself. He would wait for John to calm down and then he could talk to him. Give him all the reasons they should be together. The most important one being that James was in love with him.

John marched out pass the sandbag walls and down towards the river. It was late summer and the water was nothing more than a muddy streak across the valley floor. John walked down to the edge and sat down on the sunbaked mud. Twilight was setting and the color of the sky was changing from the bleached sky to the velvety blues before sunset. John looked up and caught the shades of blue. A silvery tint as the fingers of yellow and gold reached out from the horizon.

For a moment, John remember another silvery blue. Eyes that were hypnotic in their ethereal color. _Sherlock_. James had been right. John had loved someone else but until that moment he didn’t realized he was still in love. John thought he was over Sherlock. For his own sanity he needed to be over Sherlock. Sherlock had chosen to leave. His attention quickly captured but something else. John was boring and easily forgotten. Another broken toy that Sherlock tossed away. But John couldn’t toss away Sherlock. It seemed everything he did was still shadowed by that man.

John wondered if he would ever be able to live without thinking about Sherlock.

He watched as the yellows and golds turned to reds and pinks. Fingers of violet and darker blue streaked across the sky. The desert wind picked up and brought the scent of cooking fires and cumin. John shivered although he wasn’t cold. He looked up at the sunset again. Soon it would dark and out in the desert it would be unbelievably dark. Only moonlight and stars to guide you.

John though about everything that had brought him to this moment - sitting on the banks of a muddy river in a foreign country, watching the sun set. Where in his childhood or his time in school prepared him for this.

He thought about the brute who was his father. The abuse he poured down on John and his sister. John thought about Harry and wondered where she was. _Was she happy? Had she stopped drinking?_ He thought about the two of them running away. Hiding from their father. He thought about school. The rugby team and Wilderbrant. He wondered where Mike Stamford was now. What he could be doing. Would he be married. He remembered Mike introducing him to Sherlock. And how incredible Sherlock was. John thought about how happy he was with Sherlock and how he never wanted that to end. But it did end. John went off to the army and Sherlock went off to – _who knows?_ Now John was here. In Afghanistan, sitting by a river watching the sunset.

He had survived the trials of his past and he would survive this too. James Sholto would leave and John would keep going on. Because that was the only option he had. To just keep going on. He knew he would miss James, but he would get over it. He always did.

John sat and watched as the last of the sliver of the sun slipped beneath the horizon. As he watched he made one more realization. He needed to free himself from the memory of Sherlock. Sherlock was gone and it was time for John to let go. It was over. No more. His heart was no longer Sherlock’s.

He knew he needed to get back into the camp. He shouldn’t be out here alone like this for too long, but he just wanted a brief moment when he didn’t have to be John Watson anymore. A brief moment to stop thinking.

The rifle shot wasn’t that loud. A crack, a snap. Then silence. John felt the first wave of pain then nothing else. He laid on his back on the dry packed earth. His blood mixing into the dirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of part two. Part three will start later this week.


	24. I Used to be Someone You Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Start of the third part of the story.

I Used to be Someone You Loved

Corporal Bill Murry had found John laying in on the ground after he had been shot. Murry dragged John back into the compound. John’s blood stained the dirt and left a trail from the river’s edge to inside the walls. James came running out and he saw John’s lifeless body. A medic tried desperately to stop the bleeding. As soon as a helicopter was ready, John was Medi-Vac back to Camp Bastion. James tried to get on to the helicopter with John, but Bennett stopped him. Ordering the man to stand down.

In Bastion, Aubrey removed the fragments of the bullet but was unable to completely repair the damage. He ordered John to be sent back to Germany. The C-130 took off for Germany just as James Sholto was able to make his first call to the hospital in Camp Bastion.

While in route, John developed an infection. His temperature spiked and he became delirious. When the plane landed in Germany, John was close to death. He had not regained consciousness yet and his fever was dangerously high. He spent weeks recuperating before two more surgeries could repair his shoulder.

After months in hospital and the loss of over twenty-five pounds, John was medically discharged. He had lost his career and gained a tremor in his hand and a limp. Alone, unemployed, and friendless.

John thought about James during those long and lonely months he was in the hospital. He thought about what he would say to James. He wondered if James would be happy to hear from him or angry. There had been no word from his unit. He hadn’t heard from anyone in Sangin. It hurt. John felt so very alone. After one incredibly difficult afternoon when he fell twice because of his weak leg, John realized he would never speak to James again. He knew he wouldn’t marry James when he was healthy and had a future as a soldier. Now that he had neither, he refused to be a burden on the man.

John leaned heavily on the cane in his right hand. It had been six months since he was shot in the Afghan desert. Six months of pain and surgeries and regret. He was beginning to wish Murry hadn’t saved him. He was beginning to wish he had died in the desert. Then at least his miserable life would be over.

John returned to London, unsure what his future held for him. He was required to see a therapist for six months to received his disability from the army. But he felt it was a waste of his time. His tremor grew worse and he started to have nightmares. Everything that once was so familiar to him, now seemed strange and foreign. He went for walks as often has he could because sitting alone in his bedsit only caused him to wish he were dead.

He was wandering through St. James’ Square after leaving his appointment with his therapist when he heard a familiar voice.

“John? John Watson?”

John paused on his cane and glanced back. It was Mike Stamford. John’s heart stumbled. How different he must look to his old friend. John wondered for a moment if they were still friends. He hadn’t remained in contact with Mike. Would Mike be offended? Would Mike leave him too?

But Mike was as affable as ever. It was as if no time had passed between the two of them. Mike only commented once about John’s cane and never about the tremor. They sat and drank coffee and watched the people go by. It was like a veil had been lifted and finally John could see a future.

A chance meeting led to a job and a start.

John was still having to see his therapist but he was also working in the A&E department of St. Bart’s. Patients there didn’t care that he had a tremor in his hand or walked with a limp. They were too frightened or in too much pain to care that their physician was damaged too.

He trundled down the hall towards the nurse’s desk.

“Good evening, Trudy, my love. What’s on tap?” John asked light heartedly.

Trudy Goodwill was an abrupt woman in her late fifties. Premature grey hair and a sagging neck, she was formidable as well as conscientious. She had worked in the department for twenty years and treated all of the doctors with the same amount of indifference. Her concern was for the patients and not for the egos of the physicians. John enjoyed teasing her.

“You better be sweet to me or the next large bowel obstruction is yours.”

John winced.

“Dr. Bhasin has a GSW and Dr. Gordon has a pedestrian-car.” Trudy said as she picked up a file and handed it over the counter to John. “That means you get the concussion in three. There’s a policeman in there with him.”

“Prisoner?”

Trudy raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. John looked quickly at the intake notes. He didn’t care about the name of the patient. He concentrated on the symptoms and any lab results that were available.

“Okay.” John said distracted as he turned and read the file while limping down the hall on his cane.

He came to curtain three and pulled it back quickly then stepped into the area without looking up.

“Good evening, my name is Doctor John Watson . . .”

John looked up and saw the man lying in the bed. Words choked as John’s throat closed off.

_Sherlock._

He was thinner than John remembered. Paler. There was a ringing in John’s ears.

_It was Sherlock._

His eyes were still iridescent blue green. Like sea water shimmering in sunlight. John wondered if he was hallucinating.

_Sherlock was here. It front of him. Alive._

John nearly dropped the file. His mouth hung open as he stopped and stared at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes scanned over John’s face then moved quickly down his body. Pausing for moment on the cane, before racing back up to John’s face.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said quietly.

His voice was still deep but there was a coolness to it. A caution John didn’t remember being there.

“John Watson!?” the man standing off to the side almost shouted.

John glanced over at the tall man in the rumbled coat. He looked familiar. His hair was salt and pepper grey and his skin tanned. He had sad brown eyes but a large infectious smile.

“Greg, Greg Lestrade.” The man held out his hand.

“Oh, yes.” John fumbled with the chart and his cane. Switching hands before he could free his right hand and shake Greg’s offered hand.

“Last I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened to you?” Greg joked.

“I got shot.”

Greg’s smiled dropped. Sherlock’s eyes returned to the cane then swept over John’s body again, then back up to face.

“Oh, sorry.” Greg said.

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t.” John said as he turned back to Sherlock. His professional persona pulled back in place. “Alright who wants to explain to me what happened?”

Sherlock remained silent on the bed. Greg rolled his eyes and began to speak.

“We were chasing a criminal down the street and the idiot here decided he didn’t need to wait for backup. He went down an alley behind the man and was hit in the head by a brick.”

John set the chart down and stepped closer to Sherlock. He pulled out a pin light and leaned in close to check Sherlock’s eyes. John could smell Sherlock’s scent. Lemongrass and cigarettes. Damp earth and London. And something that was distinctively Sherlock. It made John’s mouth water and he struggled to stay focused.

“You were chasing a criminal? Are you a cop now?” John asked hoping no one noticed how much his hand was trembling. He slipped the small light back into his pocket and then slowly dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He was suddenly reminded at how soft Sherlock’s hair was. How wonderful it felt as it slipped through his fingers. John’s fingertips lightly searched Sherlock’s scalp, feeling for any injuries.

“No.” Sherlock said. He closed his eyes and seemed to relished the sensation of John’s fingertips massaging his scalp. “Why are you using a cane?”

John leaned back and glared at Sherlock. “Because I need too. Do you have a headache? Double vision?”

“No, yes, no.” Sherlock said.

John blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“No, you don’t need to use a cane. Yes, I have a headache. No, I don’t have double vision.”

Feeling himself being thrown off balanced by Sherlock, John glared. “I’ll ask the question, you will answer them. Did you loose consciousness?”

Sherlock said ‘no’ the same time Greg said ‘yes’.

John glance back and forth between the two of them. “So which is it?”

“When I got to him he was out.” Greg said. Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay. Take off your coat and jacket.” John turned away and pulled the curtain back. “Nurse, I need some assistance.” John called out to one the staff. A dark-skinned man came into the room. He was tall and thin.

Sherlock had removed his heavy wool coat and his black suit jacket.

“Roll up your sleeves.” John ordered. Sherlock did as he was told. “You appear dehydrated. When we the last time you ate?”

“What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Then three days ago.” Sherlock said indifferently.

“Just as I thought.” John felt a familiarity to the situation. He paused to wonder how long it had been since they had had a similar conversation. How many years had passed since John worried about Sherlock? He turned and addressed the nurse. “Two units of Ringers with a glucose push.”

“Well, is he going to live?” Greg asked.

“He’s got a mild hematoma back here. He’ll have a headache for a while but I don’t think he did any irreparable damage. I’ll order a cat scan. I’m more worried about the dehydration.”

The nurse helped Sherlock roll up his sleeves. As the nurse placed a tunicate on Sherlock’s arm, John glanced over. He saw the scars in the antecubital space of Sherlock’s arm. Numerous white starbursts across the crease of his elbow. The evidence of IV drug abuse. John stared at the scared arm then his eyes returned to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had been watching him. Studying John’s expression. The micro-dermal muscles around the other man’s eyes and the corners of his mouth. The two men stared at each other.

Greg realized what John had seen. He felt the sudden awkwardness in the room. He cleared his throat.

“So how long have you been back?”

John ignored him. Instead to addressed Sherlock. “How long has this been going on?”

“Isn’t there some rule against treating a patient you are personally involved with?” Sherlock asked. He shifted trying to figure out a way to hide his arm.

“I’m not involved with you anymore. You made sure about that. But if you want a different doctor – Drs Bhasin and Gordon are taking care of other patients. They might be able to get to you in three or four hours. Or you can get two units of IV fluids, a CAT scan and then leave.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

“How long have you been taking drugs?”

“You are mistaken doctor . . .” Sherlock started to say.

“That arm tells me otherwise!” John growled and pointed to the arm.

The nurse jumped back from the edge of the bed. He thought John was going to attack Sherlock. Greg stepped forward to intercede.

“You are mistaken. I used to indulge in recreational drugs. I no longer do so. I’ve been clean for over a year now.” Sherlock looked away.

John knew he looked away so John couldn’t see his eyes and know if he was lying.

John turned to the nurse. “Order a CBC, electrolytes and illicit drugs panel.” He turned back to Sherlock. “And how long had you been using? Were you using when we were together?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked as he turned and scowled at John.

“Of course it bloody matters! Were you using then?”

Sherlock held John’s glare for several seconds but then glanced away. “Occasionally.”

“Occasionally!? How the hell did I miss it?” John felt sick.

“I learned to inject myself in places that were difficult to see the needle marks. After you left, I didn’t care anymore and used anywhere on my body I felt like.”

“You idiot.” John growled. He turned and walked out of the treatment room. His hand gripped the cane so tight his knuckles turned white.

Greg followed him.

“John?” Greg chased John. “Wait up.”

John stopped and spun on the detective. Greg saw the anger and danger in the doctor’s eyes. He paused before he spoke.

“You know he is an arse. The words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ aren’t anywhere in his vocabulary.”

John eased up slightly and nodded. “You aren’t tell me anything I don’t know.”

“He really doesn’t want another doctor. He just doesn’t know what to do. I mean he never thought he was see you again.” Greg said.

“Guilt?”

“Probably. So tell me – how is he going to be?" Greg asked.

“He’ll need the CAT scan but I think the concussion is slight. He’ll be discharged afterwards. Just keep him awake for the next eight hours. And make sure he eats something. No alcohol.” John said sounding resigned. He turned to leave again when Greg stopped him.

“John, I don’t know what happened between the two of you.”

“Neither do I.”

Greg hesitated again. “He made mistakes.” John didn’t say anything. Greg continued, “Look, it’s good to see you’re back. Let’s go get a pint sometime.”

John glanced over Greg’s shoulder. His heart was still racing. He hated how much Sherlock affected him.

“Just us?” John asked.

“He’s not really the pub type is he?” Greg smirked.

“No, I guess not. Not even when we were – well, you know.”

Greg reached into his pocket and took out a notebook. He jotted down a phone number.

“Here this is my mobile. Give me a call one night after you get off work. We’ll catch a match or something.”

John took the slip of offered paper. “Sure, yeah. That would nice.”

John glanced at the number then shoved it into the pocket of his scrubs. He turned and walked away from the detective and the room. He wanted to get as far away from Sherlock as he could. He still thought he was going to be sick and he didn’t want to give Sherlock the pleasure of knowing he caused it.

John stood at the nurse’s station as he quickly wrote up his notes in Sherlock’s file. He handed the file back to Trudy who handed him another file for another patient.

John opened it and read through the basic background information before he glanced at the name. A ridiculous fear of meeting someone else from his past moved through him. He gripped his cane and took two steps towards the treatment room. Then he paused and removed the paper with Greg’s mobile number on it. He glanced at it for a moment, then wadded the paper up and binned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for comments.


	25. Now the Day Bleeds into Nightfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts to worry.

Now the Day Bleeds into Nightfall

_The drop of a pebble into a pond causes ripples across still but deep waters. Pushing out and beyond what the single moment could possibly have predicted. A simple stone tossed into the sea can cause a tsunami thousands of miles away._

After Sherlock was discharged from A&E, Greg took him back the young man’s flat on Montague Street. The cluttered flat smelled of cigarette smoke and chemicals. Greg opened the window only for Sherlock to follow behind him and close it.

“You can leave now.” Sherlock said as he flopped down into his chair.

It was the same chair he had when he lived with John. Greg stared at the chrome and leather. He wondered why Sherlock still had it. He thought Sherlock had abandoned everything he owned after John left.

“John said you can’t sleep for eight hours. I’m here to keep you awake.” Greg said as he grabbed a pile of newspapers off the ratty couch to sit down.

“John said! John said! I don’t care what John said. I’m fine. Leave.” Sherlock pouted.

Greg smiled. “Of course you are.” He said with cynicism dripping off the words. “So John is alive and living in London. How do we feel about that?”

“What? Are you pretending to be a psychologist now?” Sherlock sneered. “You’re probably as abysmal at that as you are at being a detective.”

“Careful, or I won’t let you come out and play with us anymore.” Greg said darkly.

“You wouldn’t do that. You need me.”

Greg frowned. He would never admit it to the man, but Sherlock was correct.

“John’s alive. Are you going to speak to him?” Greg asked softer.

“I did speak to him. Didn’t you notice at hospital?”

“That’s not what I mean. Are you going to talk to him about what happened between the two of you? You were terrified he’d get shot.”

“And he got shot.” Sherlock snapped.

“But he is alive and he is here. Don’t you think the two of you deserve another chance?”

Sherlock turned and looked at the detective. “I don’t think he would want to give me one.”

“Why? Because you’re a berk? I think he already knows that.”

“He’s not my John anymore. He’s – changed.” Sherlock glanced away.

“The cane? Is that the reason? He was right. You are an idiot.”

“No, he doesn’t look at me the same way anymore.” Sherlock hesitated. He felt a stab to his throat. “The light that used to be there is gone.” Sherlock’s voice cracked. “Please leave, Lestrade. I promise I won’t go to sleep. I don’t think I’ll sleep for the next week.”

“Sherlock?” Greg could feel the veil of despair fall over the younger man.

“I promise I won’t indulge either. You can reassure my brother I’m clean. We had a drug test today.” Sherlock looked away.

“Sherlock, it’s more than that. He’s the reason . . .” Greg started.

“And it doesn’t matter anymore. Yes, I was terrified he would be killed. He survived. He is back and we are not together. He doesn’t matter now and won’t be a reason for me to return to my pervious behavior. Are you satisfied?!”

Greg sighed and stood up. “I was just trying to be a friend.”

“I don’t need friends. They’ve never brought my anything but disappointment.” Sherlock spat.

Greg frowned. “Maybe because you have been disappointing.”

He waited to see what Sherlock was going to say, but the younger man simply stared at the wall - ignoring the detective. Greg growled softly and sipped his coat back on. With is mobile in his hand, he didn’t say goodbye as he left. He was busy texting.

Sherlock opened a door in his ‘mind palace’ he had locked. A room with dark blue walls and cherished moments framed in gold, hanging on them. Meeting John for the first time. John’s smile. John playing rugby; flushed and sweating, with a determined look on his face. John sleeping next to him. Moments. Personal moments that sustained Sherlock though his months of depravity. He closed his eyes and let himself indulge one more time.

~221~

Sherlock waited until the after dark before he left his flat. He knew Mycroft’s sniffer dogs would be after him, so Sherlock moved carefully through the shadows, until he was certain he had lost the surveillance team.

It had been years since Sherlock have been at this dance club. Frankie’s Backdoor had changed names to the Enclave and catered to different crowd. The walls were still painted black, but there were more tables now and the stage was gone. The dance floor was smaller and the bar itself was larger. The bartenders were no longer dressed in tight-fitting jogging shorts but in black trousers and black shirts with lavender ties. The lighting was more subdued and the drinks more expensive.

Sherlock walked in the front door, pass bouncers he didn’t recognize. The place was already crowded and the small dance floor was swaying in a mass. Sherlock paused and looked around. He was specifically looking for one person. He knew he would be there. He was always there.

The bar may have changed names, but the owner was the same. Frankie Oskar sat at table in the back of the bar. It was on a raised dais so Frankie could look out over the swaying drunk patrons. Frankie was not watching the crowds but speaking to another man. Sherlock moved through the crowd and towards Frankie’s table.

Just before he reached him, Frankie looked up and saw Sherlock coming. Frankie said something and the other man at the table turned to look at Sherlock. There was something familiar about the man. He had dark hair and pale skin. His eye were very dark, almost black.

Standing behind him was another man. Taller and broader, obviously a bodyguard of some sort. He took a step towards Sherlock, to stop him, when the first man waved him back. The man stood and walked over to Sherlock.

“There you are.” His voice carried a soft Irish accent. Barely there but still memorable.

Sherlock stared at the man. The man smiled back at him. Something flashed through Sherlock’s mind. A memory – a moment of fear and confusion. Waking up somewhere he shouldn’t have. People he didn’t know.

The name came to him. ‘ _Jim’._

“Hello again, Jim.” Sherlock said deeply.

Jim smiled broadly. “You do remember. I was afraid I didn’t leave a strong enough impression on you. You were a bit incapacitated. Then you disappeared. Rehab?” Jim stepped closer. “I’ve been waiting for you. I thought after you got that silly boring John out of your life, you would be willing . . .”

Jim leaned forward. He brought his hand up and dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock began to tip his head back but Jim closed his fist and held Sherlock’s head in place. The sting of his hair being pulled distracted Sherlock for the second it took for Jim to push up on to his toes and kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock started to raise his hands to push the shorter man away, when he heard the growl from the tall bodyguard behind Jim.

“Don’t.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to see the grip of a handgun protruding from underneath the man’s jacket. Sherlock quickly looked at the man’s face. It was square and sharp. Skin pulled tight over cheekbones and his forehead. A pale scar, starting in his blonde hairline moved down across his face, through his brow and down to his jaw. His eyes were flat grey and appeared lifeless.

“Sebby, don’t worry. Sherlock will behave. He always did for Victor.”

Sherlock’s attention quickly shifted back to Jim, who was still gripping Sherlock’s hair tight in his fist.

“Let go of me.” Sherlock whispered.

“Soon, Sherlock. Soon, you will long for my loving touch. And then you will enjoy being on your knees for me.” Jim crooned.

Sherlock felt his stomach flip.

“I believe you are mistaken. I am not the same person I was when I knew Victor Trevor. You could say we are two completely different people.” Sherlock said trying to sound indifferent at the mention of his former tormentor’s name.

“I doubt that, my dear Sherlock. I don’t believe that boring little medical student changed you that much. Remember, I saw you when he wasn’t around. I know what you got up to when you weren’t under his thumb. And I know what I want you to do once you are under my thumb.”

Jim let go of Sherlock’s hair and smiled again. “Until later my darling.”

Sherlock fought to not shiver at the insanity he heard in the man’s voice.

Jim waved his hand and the bodyguard, Seb, followed the man out of the club. Sherlock and Frankie watched the shorter man leave.

“Who was that?” Sherlock asked Frankie.

“That was Jim Moriarty. He acts like he knows you, don’t you know him?” Frankie asked.

“I think I met him once. I can’t be certain. How did he know Victor?”

“Victor did things for him.” Frankie said.

Sherlock turned and looked at the older man. The years had not been kind to Frankie. Always a heavyset man, Frankie was now obese. His pasty skin sagged over thick jowls. His eye seemed to sink into his head as thick shaggy grey eyebrows divided his face from his receding hairline.

“Victor worked in banking.” Sherlock said.

“Well, someone had to help Jim hide his money.” Frankie said.

“He is a business partner with you?”

“It’s not worth my life to talk to you about him.” Frankie said as he glanced around himself. “And don’t ask me to talk to your police friends, either. I’ve survived longer than most in this business and I plan on retiring too.”

Sherlock understood what Frankie was saying. Jim Moriarty was a dangerous man.

Sherlock took one last look as Jim and his blonde bodyguard walked out of the club. There was something about the bodyguard that was familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was a distant memory. He wondered if he had met him when Sherlock was a Jim’s flat. He wondered how he had gotten to Jim’s flat in the first place. Maybe the bodyguard had picked Sherlock up off the street and took him there. Maybe that was the reason he remembered the man.

Sherlock turned back to Frankie.

“John is back.” Sherlock said simply.

“John? John who? Oh! John! John Watson! That’s great. Where is he? Is he here tonight?” Frankie looked around the room at the various dancers and people milling around the club.

“No. I saw him today. He became a doctor.”

“Good for him. He was working really hard for that.” Frankie said. A smile came to his fat face.

“You haven’t seen him?” Sherlock asked.

“No, he hasn’t been here.”

“And if you do, you won’t tell him about our arrangement we had back when John and I were together.” Sherlock said firmly.

Frankie cocked his head to the side as he studied Sherlock’s expression.

“That was years ago. Why would it matter now? Are you planning on reconnecting with him?” Frankie asked.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? There is something in the world that the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know?”

Sherlock was shaken out of his confusion and glared at the older man. “Jim Moriarty is not the only dangerous person you know, Frankie.”

Sherlock could actually see the pudgy man pale in the alternating lights. Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply. He was glad to know John hadn’t returned to ask questions of Frankie. He would have been happier if John had never learned about the drugs but that was a moot point now. John knew. He knew Sherlock had been used drugs back when they were together. Sherlock turned and walked out of the club. Moving swiftly through the swaying crowd he disappeared into the darkness of the night.


	26. I Guess I Kinda Liked the Way You Numbed All the Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock make a deal

I Guess I Kinda Liked the Way You Numbed All the Pain

_A stone is tossed._

The Diogenes Club was as constant as the English opinion of their superiority. A refuge of calm and peace in the maelstrom that was London. Diogenes was stalwart and recalcitrant. The routines of the club had barely altered one note from their establishment over a century before. There had of course been some alterations. The sugar served with tea was now more often a sugar substitute. The newspapers, which had been so carefully ironed every day for the members, were being replaced by tablets and the internet. And of course the coal fireplaces were replaced by forced air central heating.

The members had changed to the same degree over the years. It was still a ‘Gentleman’s Club’. Diogenes had been able to skim under the requirements of the law to allow any female members. Mainly because powerful women didn’t wish to join, but that was considered for the best. Women members might insist on more modernization to the club rules. The male members of the Diogenes Club relished it’s stuffy and stilted rules. Men of perseverance, of power, of constraint. Never the faces pictured in newspapers or flashed across the screen of television sets. But the men who accomplished running the world. Governments, countries, wars, and peace. Not leaders of industry nor politicians answering to a constituency but leaders all the same. Silent and invisible. Powerful and resourceful.

Mycroft Holmes was one of these men. He asserted he held a minor position in the British Government but anyone who remained in his presence for more than a few minutes realized that was an understatement. Mycroft was more than ‘paper pusher’ in a dreary governmental office. He was important but to what degree very few actually knew and fewer understood.

The few hours Mycroft allowed himself at Diogenes was an escape and respite from the demands of his position. He often longed for the silence of the club and the formality of the staff. The calm and relaxing certainty of consistency. He cherished it. It was his haven.

That was why Sherlock’s presence in at the Diogenes was so distasteful for Mycroft. But it would be better for these occasional family gatherings to take place here than at the offices he maintained near Whitehall.

“Sherlock, we have spoken about you sneaking around at night.” Mycroft sighed as he lifted his teacup to the lips.

Sherlock slumped in an opposite chair from his brother. His long legs stretched out in front of him with his ankles crossed. Sherlock was scowling. Wanting to be anywhere but here with his brother.

“It is not my fault that your sniffer dogs can’t follow a man in the dark.” Sherlock snorted.

“Where did you go?” asked Mycroft.

“Out.”

“To see John?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid sideways towards his brother. For a brief moment, Mycroft realized he hadn’t guarded against Sherlock’s analyzing gaze. He ducked his face and averted his eyes.

“Why would you ask about John?” The question directed more to himself than to Mycroft.

Pulling his face into a neutral indifference, Mycroft said. “I was informed that you met him yesterday.”

“I didn’t meet him. He was the doctor who took care of me at A&E.”

“Yes. A brick wasn’t it? I told you, Sherlock, that if your endeavors with the Met ever became a threat to you that they would end.”

Sherlock sat up and glared at Mycroft. “Are you going to tell me that I can no longer work with the police? Is that it? Are you sending me back to that abysmal clinic?”

“It depends on where you went last night after you left your flat.” Mycroft said as he took another sip of tea.

“I didn’t go see John! He doesn’t want to see me!”

“And whose fault is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why would he want to see you? Especially after he learned about your little – problem.”

“My drug use?” Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft ignored his brother and turned to the tea serve beside his chair. He poured himself another cup of tea, adding the perfect amount of milk, while his eyes gazed longingly at the pavlova.

“Sherlock, I don’t have to remind you of what happened the last time you saw John.” Mycroft said. His words covering over the gentle tapping of his spoon on the edge of the cup.

“I saw him off on a train.”

“And then you proceeded to try and slowly kill yourself for the next few years with drugs. Detective Inspector Lestrade and I both had to rescue you from your own foolishness and drug overdoses.”

Sherlock said nothing. He pushed himself back into his chair. Mycroft continued.

“It took you months to rid yourself of your addiction and even longer to bring yourself back to be a somewhat useful person to society.”

Sherlock huffed. Mycroft waited to see if Sherlock was going to say anything, but the younger Holmes remained silent.

“Sherlock, you must see that any association with John Watson will only bring you disappointment and compromise your recovery.”

“No it won’t.” Sherlock finally snapped at his brother.

“I won’t follow you into a drug den again, Sherlock! I won’t sit there and feel helpless while I wait for an ambulance to arrive. Wondering if my brother will die before help comes. I won’t let you do that to yourself again!”

“I’ll leave you a list of what I take so you will know what to tell the paramedics.” Sherlock joked.

Mycroft set his teacup and saucer down hard. The fine china rattled as the tea sloshed out and stained the white tablecloth.

“Sherlock! I am not jesting. You will not see John Watson again. If you do, I will consider it a slip of your sobriety. I will send you back!” Mycroft’s face was beginning to redden.

He instantly regretted losing his temper. It was inappropriate. It meant he was losing control. Unthinkable. Inexcusable.

He turned away from his brother, unfolding his legs and refolding them. He fussed with the crease in his trousers before he readdressed Sherlock.

“Sherlock, if you wish to continue working with Scotland Yard, then you cease trying to contact John.” Mycroft said as he pressed the button on the table to call for butler.

“You need me to work with Scotland Yard if you want me to continue with my search for you.” Sherlock said firmly.

Mycroft twisted his face towards the other man and looked questioningly. “Have you discovered something?”

“You were incorrect in that it is one person.”

“Of course I was correct. You are mistaken.”

“There is an individual who is standing out front for everyone to see. He is believed to be the leader of the organization but he is only window dressing. A puppet to the real leader. The puppet maintains control with fear and ruthless retaliation.” Sherlock said. “But he is only an associate. Someone who does the dirty work for the real leader. Someone who is the face of his enterprise.”

“Who is it?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m narrowing it down. I am tracking a jewelry robbery now and will have the individual who received the stole goods by tonight. After that, I will simple convince the fence that it would be better to work with me and the police than protect this – what did you call him – a ‘Spider’?”

“He is one. Sitting in his web. His senses posed to listen to any vibration along the thin strands of his criminal network.” Mycroft looked repulsed at the thought of the man.

“The fence will give me the name of the ‘puppet’ and I will get the name of the ‘spider’ from him.”

“And you will give me the name once you have it.” Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock paused as he stared at his brother. Then slowly shook his head.

“No.”

It took a moment for the simple word to register with Mycroft. “What? No? Sherlock don’t make me . . .”

“Threaten you?” Sherlock asked whimsically. “I believe I will be the one making the demands this time.”

“Sherlock.”

“I will provide you with the name of your spider if you rescind the conservatorship.”

“Never.”

Sherlock uncrossed his long legs and quickly stood up. “Then we are done. I will be unable to help you, brother dear.”

“I need that name. That man is a threat to the safety of England.” Mycroft stated.

“Then what is the cost of that name? How much will you be willing to pay to keep England safe?”

“Sherlock, the conservatorship is there for your protection.”

“It is there for you to control me.”

Slowly Mycroft stood and faced his brother. He tugged gently on his waistcoat and seemed to compose himself.

“If you provide me with the name, then I will consider rescinding the conservatorship.”

“No. My freedom for the name.”

“You could give me any name. It could be a complete ruse and . . .”

“I assure you that whomever I bring to you will be who you are looking for. He will be guilty and you will have your spider. All for the low cost of my soul.” Sherlock glowered at his brother.

Mycroft’s eyes skidded sideways. His face felt warm and he hated he had been pushed into a corner. Being comparted to the Beelzebub.

“If it is proven he is guilty.” Mycroft inserted.

“Of course, I will wait until after the trial if you promise – as an English gentleman – my freedom.”

“After the trial.” Mycroft held his hand out to his brother. “I promise.”

Sherlock took a moment to stare down at the offered hand. He lifted the corner of his mouth and took his brother’s hand and shook it once.

But before Sherlock could pull back, Mycroft asked. “What if John wants nothing to do with you? You are the one who abandoned him. You are the one who refused to wait. He may not wish to see you again.”

Sherlock frowned and twisted away from Mycroft.

“John is his own man. He has made his own decisions. I have accepted he doesn’t want to see me. But I will still have my independence. I will be free of you.”

“Sherlock, we are brothers. We will never be free of each other.”

Sherlock twisted back and looked at Mycroft. “London is a big city, Mycroft. I believe it is in my ability to avoid you just as you have avoided being a brother all these years.”

Sherlock didn’t wait to see the emotional blow the words had on Mycroft. He rushed from the room and felt more invigorated than he had in months. He now had a way back to John and regardless of what John said, Sherlock knew they should be together.

~221~

Jim Moriarty, wearing only a silk dressing gown, lounged on the sofa of his new flat. The flat was in a high-rise on the south side of the river with a lovely view of the Shard. He loved the name of that building – the Shard. It sounded dangerous, painful, lethal. The irregular jagged panels at the top of the building looked like slivers of glass cutting into the sky.

_“Beautiful,”_ he thought as he stared out the floor to ceiling windows of his flat.

It had taken him two years to find the perfect flat. He wanted something modern and above the tenth floor. He wanted windows and light. A good view. Open floor plans and big spacious rooms. He had moved repeatedly in the last twenty-four months. Sometimes because he didn’t care for the flat but sometimes out of necessity.

Jim Moriarty preferred the flat he had two years ago when he lived on the other side of the river. He had made it his base of operations. Rarely ever actually leaving the flat unless his presence was needed. He often sent his right-hand man, Sebastian Moran, off to do the dirty work. The occasional beating or murder when necessary. But he had to abandon that flat after the police had raided it during one of his many orgies.

Jim wasn’t one for group sex, but he did enjoy watching other debase themselves. Watching men and women allow themselves to be used and abused for the pleasures of drugs. It made Jim feel powerful. And Jim loved feeling powerful.

He leaned back in the large sectional couch and rested his arms across the back. He opened his legs and let his thighs be exposed as the silk slid off them. He closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock Holmes kneeling in front of him. Sherlock naked with his dark curls and iridescent eyes pleading up to him, waiting for the orders from Jim’s mouth. Jim shivered at the idea. His own length filled and became turgid.

He could hardly wait for the moment when he would have Sherlock as his own pet. He knew he should have taken the dark-haired boy away from Victor years ago. Victor was an idiot. He broke his toys instead of tormenting them. Sherlock would be lovely tormented. He could have had Sherlock this whole time if it weren’t for his boss’ orders. Sherlock could beg and plead and then Jim could make him do what ever he wanted. A smile curled the man’s thin lips. That was what he wanted. And now that his boss gave his blessings, he would have it.

But it wouldn’t be as easy as last time. Last time, Sherlock would have done anything to get his daily hit. He would have eagerly crawled across the floor for Jim’s amusement. And if the police hadn’t raid the flat at that moment, then Jim would have had Sherlock for his very own. He had wanted the boy since he met him with Victor years ago. He had offered to buy Sherlock off the idiot, but Victor said no. Stupid idiot. Then Victor let him slip away. Let Sherlock get tangled up with that boring medical student. Jim wasn’t allowed to touch Sherlock when Watson was around. He never did quite understand that. He didn’t know why Watson was so important.

But Watson was gone now and Sherlock was ripe for the plucking. Jim just needed to find a reason for the man to come to him. And to beg Jim to be his owner.


	27. I Need Somebody to Heal

I Need Somebody to Heal

_Ripples on a pond._

It was late when John got off work. It was already dark out when he left St Bart’s and started his slow walk to the Tube Station. His leg was throbbing. His shoulder felt numb. He leaned heavily on the metal crutch. His anger from seeing Sherlock the day before still boiled under his skin.

_Why did Sherlock tell him he didn’t need the cane?_ Ella, his therapist, had told him the same thing, but he knew she was wrong. He leg ached. The knife wound from the Taliban fighter still burned. But Sherlock had also told him it was psychosomatic. John wondered why Sherlock would say such a thing without even asking about the injury.

John’s mind was so intensely absorbed by his anger and confusion he didn’t notice the car following him until it pulled in front of him, blocking him from crossing into the station.

The back door of the saloon opened and John heard a familiar voice.

“Get into the car, John. Let’s not make this too unpleasant.”

John frowned. He was already angry having seen Sherlock the day before. Now he was expected to deal with Mycroft Holmes and his ‘cloak and dagger’ paranoia.

John slid into the backseat with difficulty. His leg was throbbing. The door closed and the car smoothly pulled away from the curb and out into traffic.

“Mycroft, I’m tired and not in the mood.” John said as a hello.

“And I do not appreciate spending my valuable time dealing with trivialities either, John.” Mycroft said. His eyes scanning over the metal cane then back to John’s body. “I see you have returned from serving Queen and country.”

John refused to speak. His attention fixed on the passing streets.

“I was made aware that you made contact with Sherlock.”

John said nothing.

“I wish to make it clear to you that Sherlock and you have no future together.”

Silence.

“You should never attempt to see him or speak to him again.”

Nothing.

“John, he is better off now with you out of his life. Your involvement with him was – harmful.”

John temper flared again. He turned and glared at the Politian.

“I was harmful to him?”

“Yes, if you must know. He is better off without you around.”

“I’m not the one who was beating him to death. I wasn’t the one who got him hooked on drugs. And if I had been made aware he was using, I would have put an end to it.” John’s face was red with anger. His fingers flexed over the handle of cane.

Mycroft had the sudden image of the cane being used a weapon against himself.

“John, you left him and he fell apart.”

“I told him I would return. He was the one who left me. He is the one who didn’t stick around. I came back. I tried to be there as best I could. I wasn’t the one who let him get deeper into drugs.”

Mycroft felt the sting of the accusation. “I didn’t realize he would delve deeper into his addiction.”

“So you knew he was using. You knew he had a problem and you didn’t tell me!” John raised his voice as he eyes flashed brighter.

“I did the best I could. I care deeply for Sherlock . . .”

“I remember a conversation like this before. One where you accuse me of being bad for Sherlock while you ignored he was being abused by Victor. And now you’re saying I’m bad for him, while you didn’t help him when he was abusing drugs. When did he start really being a junkie? Was it when he was living with me or was it when you were supposed to looking out for him?”

Mycroft dipped his chin down defensively. He glared at the doctor but knew John was right.

“You have no idea what I went through to save him after you abandoned him. I told you, you would hurt him. I told you, you were not good for him.”

“When we were together he was happy. He was healthy. Have you seen him lately? He told me he hadn’t eaten in days. He is gaunt and thin. He looks like he’s just before jumping off a roof.” John growled.

Mycroft thought back to earlier in the day and his meeting with Sherlock. ‘ _He looks the same to me.’_ Mycroft thought. Then he wondered if Sherlock hadn’t actually looked healthier when he lived with John five years earlier. If Mycroft had just become accustom to Sherlock’s wasted features.

“Your contact with him will be detrimental to him.” Mycroft persisted.

“My contact? He came into A&E with a concussion. I didn’t seek him out. I didn’t go looking for him. He let me know he didn’t want me to return to him. He didn’t want me around! I didn’t try and contact him! He was a patient! Only a patient!” John shouted. “And if you really gave a damn about your brother, you would be happy I was there. I took better care of him than you ever did. I never let him get beat up or knowingly let him get addicted to drugs. As brothers go, Mycroft, you’re shite.”

Mycroft’s face was red with anger. _How dare this insignificant doctor say such a thing._ John continued.

“I did everything I could to keep him safe and to care for him. He didn’t have bruises on him when I was there. But you! You didn’t know Victor was killing him. He didn’t take drugs when I live with him. But I leave and you let him become a raging addict!”

“John, you don’t know what I went through for him.” Mycroft bellowed back.

“Sherlock meant everything to me. And he knew it. I made sure he knew it. What you went through? How long did it take you to even notice something was wrong with him? Claiming concern and attachment but in reality, emotionally isolated and indifferent. You don’t care for Sherlock because the Holmes can’t care for anyone. Not even themselves. You’re brilliance and great intellect has left you less than human. Hollow and uncaring.”

The car had stopped moving. Mycroft glanced out the window and saw the street they were on.

“John you need to get out of the car.” Mycroft growled.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me. To late, someone else beat you to it.” John opened the door and quickly climbed out of the vehicle. The metal cane clutched in his fist but he was not using it. “And do me a favor. You and your brother, never bother me again!”

John slammed the car door closed. He turned and marched to the door of his flat, ignoring the fact he was walking without his cane.

~221~

John paced his flat for an hour. Angry at Sherlock and Mycroft as well as himself. Was it true that Sherlock was using drugs when they were together? John wondered who would know. He considered who their friends were when they were living together. There was Mike and Mike, being a doctor, would have said something to John. There were members of John’s rugby team, but most them didn’t like being around Sherlock and after it came out they were a couple, most quick stopped being John’s friends. There was Frankie. Maybe he would know, John thought. But there was someone else who probably knew more than he was telling and would be honest with John.

John chastised himself for throwing Greg Lestrade’s phone number away. After another hour of trying to figure some other way around it, John called the information line for Scotland Yard and asked if he could leave a message for Detective Inspector Lestrade. The pleasant-sounding woman said she would forward John’s call to Greg’s voice mail. John stumbled over the explanation as to what happened to Greg’s note and would he please call John back. Half an hour later, John was texted an address.

The pub was just around the corner from the New Scotland Yard building. John considered it ridiculous to call the eighty-five-year-old building ‘New’, but that was the peculiar practice in England. The famously photographed New Scotland Yard was built in the late sixties, but the Met moved out of that building and back over to the Embankment and into a building previously used as police headquarters during WWII.

The pub was clean and little too touristy being so near Trafalgar Square, but it was where many of the off-duty police officers went for pint after work. John and Greg took a small table at the back of the room. A football match was playing on the telly and the attention of most of the bar patrons were on the game.

“So tell me the truth,” Greg started. “you threw away my number.”

John started to protest then looked down into his beer. “That obvious?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t blame you. It had to have been odd meeting up with him like that after all this time.” Greg said before taking a sip. His eyes taking a careful scan around the room.

John was familiar with the movement. He too would often check his surroundings looking for any threats. Instincts of a soldier or policeman. Habits picked up from being shot at too often.

“It’s not how I wanted to see him again.” John conceded.

“Did you want to see him again?” Greg asked.

John felt uncomfortable. He wanted to be the one asking questions but Greg seemed to be beating him to the punch.

“I . . . I don’t know. I mean he was everything to me. I was devastated when found out he was gone. None of my letters opened. I thought for a moment that something had happened to him. Something bad and he couldn’t tell anyone to call me. But then, when I then I spoke to his brother and well, it wasn’t good. It didn’t matter how I felt. Sherlock didn’t want to wait. He didn’t care.”

“That’s not true, you know.” Greg interrupted.

“What?”

“He cared, but he was afraid. He thought you were going to die. He thought you were going to abandon him too.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” John said, looking confused.

“Do you know much about Sherlock’s life? I mean his parents and his brother?” Greg asked.

“I know his parents died when he was young and his brother is an arse.”

A small smile came to Greg’s face at the comment, but then quickly faded. “His parents died in a car crash. And left Mycroft to raise Sherlock. Mycroft was anything but prepared for that. He was just beginning to get established and he needed to focus on his career, leaving a frightened and emotionally scarred young boy alone. He sent Sherlock off to some boarding school. I don’t even think they saw each other on holidays. So Sherlock grew up believing he was going to be alone. That there was some reason why everyone left him. If you think about, it explains a lot about the situation between him and Trevor. I mean, Sherlock’s a smart bugger. A great mind but he is emotionally stunted. He was willing to let Trevor do anything the bastard wanted as long as he didn’t leave him. Sherlock was more afraid of being alone than being abused.”

John felt sick. He should have seen it. He should have known.

“It was Victor who got him using drugs, wasn’t it?” John finally asked.

“Probably. Or he started before Victor showed up in the picture. Either way I think he was using back then to cope with it. He let Victor beat the crap out of him just so Victor wouldn’t leave him. Then you came along.”

“I didn’t know about the drugs.” John whispered. He was beginning to hate himself. _How did he not know?_

“I used to visit Sherlock when he was in rehab. He told me he never felt any cravings when he was around you.” Greg said as he eyes scanned the room again. He took another sip of his beer as the words sunk into John.

“Oh”

“Yeah, you became his new addiction. And you two were good together.”

“He knew I wanted to go to the army. He knew I needed to for my education,” John said.

“What he knows and what he understands are two different things. He knew you need to go away to finish your training to become a doctor but he understood you were leaving too, just like his parents, just like his brother.”

John felt a stab in his heart. “I wanted to come back. I told him I was coming back.”

“He decided he needed to be the one to leave this time. He left and then proceeded to try and dull his senses with drugs. I found him once – it was warehouse. I thought he was dead. He was passed out on the ground. Vomit all around him. He smelled like shite. I rolled what I thought was a corpse over and saw it was Sherlock. I couldn’t believe how different he looked. I called an ambulance and got him to hospital. He walked out before we could get him into rehab.” A dark shadow passed over Greg’s face as he remembered the warehouse and Sherlock.

“You said you visited him in rehab.” Said John.

“His brother found him in a crack house. He was overdosing again. Mycroft got him to hospital and before Sherlock woke up, Mycroft had established a conservatorship. Sherlock is not his own person anymore. Mycroft had Sherlock locked up in a rehab and it took me weeks to find him. After he went through the course three times, Mycroft let him leave with the understanding that if he miss stepped once, Sherlock would be lock-up again and this time there would be no repeal.”

“You’re joking. That bastard.” Hissed John. “It would kill Sherlock to be locked up.”

“I know, but Mycroft believes he is trying to make up for not being there before. He is trying to keep everything and everyone away from Sherlock that might possibly cause him to relapse,” said Greg.

“Even me?” John asked.

“Even you. I’m deemed okay as long as I keep Sherlock’s mind engaged and keep him from getting injured. This concussion will cause a ripple but hopefully I’ll only have to be yelled at for an hour by the pompous arse.”

John took another sip of his beer. He wished it was something stronger.

“Is he alright? I mean is Sherlock staying clean? Is he able to deal with things better?” John asked in a half whisper.

Greg nodded his head. “He is still a bastard to everyone around him, but I think that is a coping mechanism. Keeping people at arm’s length so no one gets close enough to hurt him again. He’s working and that is good. He enjoys the work. And I haven’t seen any sign of relapsing.”

“Good.”

John looked away and then sighed. “How about I get some really drinks?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Greg said as he leaned back in his seat.

John stood up and move to go to the bar when he stopped. “Am I to blame for him getting deeper into drugs? Was it my fault?”

Greg looked somberly at John. “As much your fault as the rest of us are to blame.”

John nodded and decided tonight would be a great night to get drunk with Lestrade.


	28. Somebody to Know

Somebody to Know

_The ripple expands._

Sherlock felt like he was going to vomit. His insides twisted as he stared at the white Edwardian townhouse. The paint on the wrought iron fence in front of the building was peeling. The stone steps leading up to the door were chipped and worn. The black painted door was in need of a fresh coat of paint.

John’s flat was in the basement of the building. A garden level flat with a separate entrance. Sherlock had stood on the opposite side of the street for two hours watching the building. He couldn’t see John’s door from where he was. He paced back and forth wondering what would happen if he went over and knocked on the door.

He knew he was running out of time. Mycroft’s surveillance team must have found him by now and when they realized whose flat he was at, Mycroft would swoop in and kidnap Sherlock away.

Sherlock walked across the street and looked down the stairs that led to John’s flat. The door had two new locks on it. They didn’t match the style of the fixtures on the door. He glanced at the windows. The curtains were closed and Sherlock couldn’t see into the flat. He took the first step down the stairs then stopped and turned around. He was ten feet away when he heard a voice he had been hearing in his imagination for days now.

“Were you going to knock or was it supposed to be some kind of telepathy experiment?” asked John.

Sherlock turned and saw John standing at the top of the stairs. The metal cane was no longer gripped in his right hand. Sherlock turned slowly and walked back towards the doctor.

“Well if it was telepathy, it worked.”

“No it didn’t. My upstairs neighbor called me. Said some weirdo was hanging around across the street. She watched you for an hour and was just before calling the police when you came over and looked into my windows. She called me instead just in case.”

John noticed how Sherlock reacted badly to the term ‘weirdo’. He wondered if it that was one of those names that Sherlock had to endure when he was at public school.

“Come in before she decides to call the cops anyway. I have started a pot of coffee.” John turned and walked down the concrete steps to his open front door.

Sherlock started to follow him, when he paused and looked up at the window on the ground floor flat. An older woman with a narrow face and pinched expression was watching him. Peeking out from behind drawn curtains.

Sherlock glared at her and raised his chin in defiance of her meddling but realized if she hadn’t called John and if John hadn’t come out to confront him, then Sherlock would be halfway back to Montague street by now. Sherlock smiled at her and skipped down the stairs.

John’s flat was depressing. The main area of the flat was a sitting room/kitchen combo that smelled of old grease. The furniture appeared to be a cheap flat pack style. Fiber board and veneer. The couch was small. Sherlock doubted even John could lay down on it comfortably. John’s computer was set up on the kitchen table as was a small telly. It looked like John watched tv while he ate.

The kitchen was clean and the nothing was on the counters. Sherlock remembered how fastidious John had been about their kitchen. Cleaned it every day and got angry at Sherlock for bringing experiments homes. It made him feel reminiscent.

Behind the kitchen, Sherlock could see a smaller room with a single bed in it. The bedding was cheap and plain. There were no pictures on the walls and no knickknacks that would divulge anything about the person living here. The rooms were clean and devote of personality. The only thing that was personal in the flat was a single photograph in a cheap black frame. It sat on the shelf of an otherwise empty bookshelf save for a few medical periodicals.

Sherlock picked up the photo and was looking at it when John noticed what he had done. John quickly came over and took the photo away from Sherlock and placed it back down on the shelf. Carefully turning it so the picture could be easily seen from anywhere in the room.

Sherlock studied the photo. It was of John and four other men. John was dressed in desert fatigues and a sleeveless t-shirt. John’s arms were muscular and tanned. His hair a shade lighter than Sherlock remembered. The men were similarity dressed and were muddy. All the men were smiling brightly and laughing at the camera. Cradled in John’s left arm was a rugby ball.

“I convinced some guys to play a game one day. It was early spring and the first day without rain. It was a mistake.” John said as he looked at the photo instead of Sherlock. A distant look came to John’s face as he remembered.

“A mistake? Why?”

“Less than halfway through, it quit being rugby and turned into a free-for-all. It was great fun. Hadn’t laughed that hard since . . .” John’s words died away.

Sherlock noticed the sadness in John’s voice. He looked back at the men in the photo. Two men stood on John’s left and two stood on his right. One man on the right had his arm thrown over John’s shoulders. John’s right arm was wrapped around the man’s waist. They were comfortable with holding each other. He was taller than John with red hair and turquoise blue eyes. He was standing closer to John than a friend would. John was leaning in towards him. Sherlock didn’t want to make the deduction about what the body language was telling him.

“Who are they?” He asked.

“The one on the far right is John Blackwood. Next to him is Henn. Then Major Sholto and on the far left is Bill, Bill Murry. He saved my life.” John said as he kept staring at the photograph.

“How did he save your life?” Sherlock asked as he watched John.

“He found me when I was shot. Dragged me back into the compound and stopped the bleeding. They had to fly me out in a chopper but I don’t remember any of it.”

“Do you miss the army?” Sherlock asked. He felt completely out of place. A stranger with a stranger.

“Sometimes. I miss the sense of belonging. I miss the men. I don’t miss anything else. Not the killing or the long hours or the dirt.” John turned and walked away from Sherlock and into the small kitchen.

“You’re not using your cane.” Sherlock observed.

John didn’t look at him. “Yeah, learned I didn’t need it.”

“You learned? You didn’t trust me when I told you, you didn’t need it?”

“No.” John’s lips thinned as he tried to maintain his composure.

He pulled two miss matched cups down from the shelf and poured coffee into each. Then he added two spoons of sugar to Sherlock’s cup without asking. He handed the cup back to Sherlock.

“Why are you here, Sherlock?” John asked before he took a sip of his coffee.

Sherlock noticed John was drinking black coffee. When they lived together, John like milk in his coffee. It was simple but it made Sherlock wondered if his tastes changed because of the Army or because of other things in his life. He wondered what other changes had happened to John. Again he quickly looked around the flat. It barely looked like John lived here. He didn’t believe two people lived here.

“It was – awkward at hospital the other day.”

John didn’t say anything. Sherlock frowned and continued.

“Lestrade said the two of you spoke.”

“We did.”

“And Mycroft talked to you.”

“No, he kidnapped me and blamed me for what happened to you.”

Sherlock looked up and frowned. “He shouldn’t have. You weren’t to blame.”

“Not for all of it. But for somethings, yes. I could have been more understanding.”

“You were honest with me. You told me you had to leave. You needed to leave to finish your training to become a doctor. You never deceived me.”

“At least one of us didn’t deceive.” John couldn’t stop accusing.

“I didn’t use drugs while we were together.” Sherlock whispered as he looked down into his coffee cup.

“You said . . .”

“I said that to hurt you.”

“Why would you want to hurt me?” asked John.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

John fought the inclination to both grab Sherlock and wrap him in his arms, begging for forgiveness and wanting to punch the man. John stared at Sherlock, then huffed out a breath. “Well, that’s a first. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know something.”

“I’m not omnipotent, John.” Sherlock scoffed. He felt a vice grip around his ribs. Breathing became difficult.

“The way you and your brother act could have fooled me.” John took the coffee cup away from Sherlock and turned away from the man. John went and placed the two cups in the sink, then turned around and leaned against the counter.

“I will ask you again, Sherlock, why are you here?” It hurt too much to drag this out. John wanted Sherlock to leave.

Sherlock stiffened his back and stood up straight. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

“I wanted to see you again. I thought we should try.” The words faded off as he looked at the sullen expression on John’s face. “I thought that if we could talk . . .”

“You thought we could be what? Friends? Lovers?” John scoffed.

Sherlock glanced back at the photo on John’s shelf. “We were friends once.”

“Yes we were. In fact, you meant everything to me, but I guess that wasn’t enough for you. You needed more than I could give and I – well, I’m an idiot too.”

Sherlock spun his head back to stare at John.

“What?”

“You heard me. I didn’t realize how you would react when I left. I didn’t realize you weren’t going to wait for me. I never thought you would just walk away and do something stupid like take up drugs.” John said bitterly. _‘Why is this hurting so bad’_ John thought to himself. “Did any of it mean anything to you or was I just somebody to entertain you while you waited for the next shiny thing to grab your attention. I guess I was pretty boring to you. You couldn’t wait the few weeks before I got back from training.”

Sherlock felt a stab in his chest. He leaned back away from John. He realized he didn’t know this man standing in front of him. He wasn’t the John Sherlock had known. He didn’t even look the same.

This John was guarded and closed off. He didn’t want to listen to Sherlock. He didn’t believe in Sherlock anymore. This John didn’t have the same open and friendly expression. His eyes, although still as blue where cold and distant. They had seen too many ugly things in the world. They would never look at Sherlock in wonder and amazement again.

The pain Sherlock felt was worse than when John left the first time. His greatest fears had been realized. His John went to the army and never returned.

“My deductions were correct.” Sherlock said.

John’s hardened expression didn’t change. He simply glared at Sherlock. “What deduction?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

John stared at Sherlock for another few seconds before he said. “Then there is no reason for us to see each other again.”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“And you won’t do something stupid like going and getting high?”

For a moment, Sherlock thought he detected a hint of concern in John’s voice, but he decided it was his own wishful thinking. Wanting to believe that somewhere, deep inside John, there was still a chance. But the coldness of John’s face told Sherlock he was mistaken.

“I no long have a reason to do something as foolish as that. The reason I had apparently died.”

John was the one startled by that comment. He shook his head so slightly it was almost imperceptible. Words were caught in his throat. Denials and regret, but he stopped himself from saying them. He thought it would be better for both of them if he pushed Sherlock away.

Sherlock waited a moment then turned and walked to the door. “Any intelligent person would make the same assumption about you, John. The way you live. Withdrawn and reclusive. I’m surprised you didn’t take holy orders and become a monk. You were always good at self-flagellation. No wonder none of your army buddies have made any attempt to reconnect with you.”

John’s anger bloomed brightly. He was about to say something when Sherlock’s mobile chimed with a text alert. The tall man took the mobile out of pocket and looked at the message.

“A case from Lestrade. I would offer you join me in the investigation, but you are obviously busy hiding here in your little hole.” Sherlock slid the mobile back into his pocket and quickly left before John would realize Sherlock was struggling to not cry.

~221~

Sherlock recognized the address of the murder immediately. He waved a cab down and gave the driver the address. He sat in the back of cab as it drove to the dance club thinking about what he had just said to John.

He knew he was couldn’t see John again. He couldn’t handle seeing the anger and pain in John’s face. Anger and pain he had put there. He hoped his last horrible words he said were enough to keep John away from him.

The cab pulled up in front of the Enclave. The forensic team were already there. Blue and white crime scene tape cordoned off the front door of the bar from the gathering crowds. It was at least two hours before the club would be open.

Sherlock got out of the cab. He lifted the blue and white tape and crossed underneath it. A WPC came rushing up to him to stop him when DCI Lestrade walked up.

“In here.” He waved Sherlock over.

Sherlock walked into the bar. His eyes glancing around quickly, looking at the faces of the bartenders and waitresses. He saw Frankie standing between two detectives who were questioning him. Sherlock’s attention moved to the man dead on the dance floor.

“GSW. Three shots. Two in the chest and one to the head.” Lestrade said as he walked up.

“Professional. Not a robbery gone wrong.” Sherlock said off-handed as he stepped closer to the body.

“The owner said he’s never seen the man before. He’s not too clear on what happened. He claims everyone was in the basement when this happened.” Lestrade said sarcastically.

“That is where he’s private office is. He also stores the extra liquor down there.” Sherlock said.

“Oh, do you know him?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes.”

Sherlock squatted down beside the body and looked at the man’s face. The dead man was tan and strong looking. His clothes were neat and clean. The shirt had been pressed and the jeans were still stiff from being new. He had red hair with flecks of grey beginning to show. His eyes were turquoise blue.

“His name is James Sholto. He’s a lieutenant colonel in the army.” Lestrade read the information from his notepad.

“I know.”


	29. It’s Easy to Say but It’s Never the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns of James' death

It’s Easy to Say but It’s Never the Same

_The ripple goes larger._

John had decide fate was out to get him. The mysterious force of the universe hated him. He knew that as a fact when he opened his front door. Two uniformed PC’s were standing there, informing him, he needed to accompany them to headquarters.

“What’s this about?” John asked, as he hustled to put his jacket on. In the back of his mind he hoped the place he hid his service weapon was good enough. He didn’t want to be found in possession of an illegal gun.

“DCI Lestrade requested your assistance.” The older of the two said.

Not knowing what to expect, John quietly followed the men out of his flat and to a patrol car waiting at the kerb. The ride seemed both brief and long. John’s mind jumping from one scenario to another. When he finally arrived at Scotland Yard, he was quickly escorted into Greg’s office.

The office was plain and unremarkable. Government issued furniture. Neutral colored walls. Three separate framed commendations. Photograph of a woman and two children, who looked remarkably like Greg, on the desk. John sat down with the detective inspector sitting across from him. Greg’s desk between them made the visit more formal than friendly.

Standing in the corner, leaning up against the wall, was Sherlock. His attention focused on his mobile.

Greg looked tired. His suit coat was off and he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to the middle of his forearms. His tie was pulled down slightly and the top button was undone. Greg’s eyes were more bloodshot than normal but the sadness was still there. His mouth was pulled down in a frown.

“Sorry for pulling you in like this,” Greg apologized.

John glanced around the room. Sherlock was standing off to the right. He was looking down but John was certain he was studying him.

John glanced back at Greg. The desk in front of him was covered with files. A cup smelling of old coffee sat on the edge next to right hand. The air in the room was stuffy.

“I can’t imagine why you would need to drag me in here,” John glared back. “If this is about Sherlock and me . . .”

“No, it’s not.” Greg interrupted.

John paused and looked at Sherlock again. The dark-haired man was still looking down at his phone.

“What is it?”

Greg sighed as if preparing himself. “John, do you know a man by the name of Lieutenant Colonel James Sholto?”

John sat up slightly. “Yeah, he was stationed with me in Sangin. He was a major back then and my superior officer.”

“How well do you know Sholto?” Greg continued.

“As well as two men serving together,” John said. His eyes slid sideways towards Sherlock suspiciously.

He noticed Sherlock shift positions on the wall. He wondered if Sherlock had detected the lie.

“Since you were discharged, have you heard from Sholto?” asked Greg.

“No, I lost track of the men in my unit after I was shot. It happens. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Do you know any reason why Sholto would be in London?”

John’s eyes flashed back and forth between Greg and Sherlock. An uneasiness crept into him.

“He told me he was up for a promotion. He was expecting on being stationed in England. But before he would take up his new position, he would have been given a few weeks leave.”

“Would he be looking for you?”

“What is this about?” John finally asked. He stood up and marched over to Sherlock, who twisted to confront John. “Is this about you? Are you doing this? You saw that picture and decided to drag James into your little drama?”

“John, please sit down.” Greg said.

“No, I want to know why you are asking questions about James Sholto.” John glared at Greg. “He’s a good man – a decent man. He doesn’t need to be harassed by an immature, needy bastard!”

Greg took a moment, just staring at John. Contemplating what words he would use.

“John, I am sorry to inform you, but your friend was involved in a shooting earlier today.”

John thought he had been punched in the stomach.

“Where? Is he alright?” John stepped forward.

“I am sorry to inform you that James Sholto is dead.”

John almost fell forward. He reached out with his left hand and caught Greg’s desk. Leaning forward heavily on his arm, he struggled to breath.

“Dead? James was shot? What happened? A robbery? Some kind of hate crime?” The words babbled out of John’s mouth.

“We don’t know. We are trying to learn everything we can to make that determination. He was at the Enclave.”

John glance around confused by the name.

“Frankie’s Backdoor,” said Sherlock as he pulled himself off the wall he was leaning on. He stepped around the desk so he could look into John’s face. “It was a professional hit. He was murdered by someone who knew who he was and was familiar with killing.”

“Frankie’s? I don’t understand. Why would he be there?” John said as he tried to regain himself.

“Did you ever mention the place to him when you were in Afghanistan?” asked Greg.

“Probably, I don’t remember,” John said.

“So, he could have come looking for you there? He could have been at the bar trying to track you down.” Greg said as he opened a file folder on his desk. “You used to work there. Did Frankie Oskar know where you lived? Would he have known how to get in contact with you?”

“No. I mean, yeah, I used to work there when I was in school, but I haven’t seen Frankie in years. I don’t think he knows anything about me.”

“Everyone at the bar said they had never seen James Sholto before. So the only reason he would go there would be to look for you. Why would Sholto be looking for you, John?” Sherlock asked. He was able to keep the sound of anxiety out of his voice.

John looked up at Sherlock. His pale shock expression changed into horrified then anger. He took a deep breath preparing to start yelling when the door of Greg’s office opened. Inspector Brian Dimmit marched in without being asked.

“Dimmit, it’s polite to wait until you’re invited in.”

“Fuck your manners. I just received the ballistic report on the bullet removed from victim at the Enclave.” Dimmit wasn’t looking at Greg. His attention was fixed on John.

“Why did forensics give you my ballistic report?” Greg growled as he stood up.

“Because it is linked to a cold case I worked before I was demoted. Victor Trevor.”

John looked confused as Sherlock stepped closer to him. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder.

“What connection does Trevor and Sholto have?” Greg asked.

“It was the same weapon that killed both of them.” Dimmit continued to glare at John.

“What? But that doesn’t make sense. Why would the same gun be used? They didn’t know anyone in common,” said John.

“But they did, you.” Dimmit sneered at John.

“What?”

“I need to question you regarding your connection between Victor Trevor’s murder and the murder of James Sholto.” Dimmit turned and waved a PC forward. “Put him in an interview room.”

“I’m interviewing John Watson!” barked Greg. “You just got promoted again, I out rank you.”

“Take it up with the DCS.” Dimmit finally turned and spoke to Greg.

Greg slammed his fist down on the desk. “I’ll do just that, and then I’ll be kicking you down the street for the next week.”

Greg rounded his desk and marched out as the PC stepped forward and took John by the arm. The PC started to recite the ‘caution’ to John. Stunned John simply allowed himself to be led from the room. Sherlock was already texting on his phone.

~221~

The interrogation rooms of the old Met smelled of sweat and fear. This new interrogation room smelled of latex paint and floor adhesive. It was sharp and unpleasant and was giving John a headache. He briefly missed the old dinge rooms of Broadway 10 building. John looked around the bare room. It was less distinctive than the last one he was in five years earlier when he was last questioned by Dimmit. The walls were painted a creamy off-white and there wasn’t an obvious two-way mirror as in the old station. John did notice the small red light of a camera behind the vent grill, though. He glanced around the room looking for any other suspicious looking spots for hidden cameras. He hadn’t noticed any but he was sure they were there.

Brian Dimmit sat opposite John, leaning back in his chair as he read through a police file. They had been sitting there for at least twenty minutes, without Dimmit asking a single question. John was getting frustrated.

“I have a shift in an hour,” said John.

“I’ve already contacted the hospital to inform them you are here being questioned about a murder.” Dimmit didn’t take his attention away from the file folder.

John wanted to growl. ‘ _Of course Dimmit told his supervisors that he was involved with a murder.’_ John knew the conservative administrators of St. Bart’s shunned negative publicity. Having a part-time doctor connected to a homicide would discourage them from keeping him on staff. Dimmit, with that one phone call had cost John his job.

“Get on with it or I’m leaving.” John grimaced.

Dimmit set the folder down on the table between them. “That of course is your choice, but I would think you would want to help to find the murderer of your fellow soldier.”

“I can’t help if you don’t ask me anything.”

“I just want to get the facts straight. You can appreciate that.”

“Get on with it.” John snarled.

“Tell me what you did today.”

“I worked a late shift so I didn’t get up until after half-past ten. Went for a run around the neighborhood, then ate lunch. Sherlock came by for about ten minutes then left. Around six the constables picked me up at my flat and brought me here. I’ve been here since then.” John glared back at Dimmit.

“Sherlock Holmes came by around what time?” asked Dimmit.

“I don’t know, noon, maybe.”

“And five years ago, what were you doing the day Victor Trevor was murdered?”

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“Try,” prompted Dimmit.

John took in a deep breath. “I was in class – lectures. I think I left around two and skipped rugby practice.”

“Why did you skip rugby practice?” Dimmit asked.

“It was an abbreviated one, just before a game. And I was upset about something. I didn’t want to be at the field.” John remember the sight of Lenard Wilderbrant in the hospital bed. Beaten and unconscious.

“What were you upset about?” asked Dimmit.

“You bloody well know what I was upset about. Damn it how many times do we go over the same information.” John flared.

“Until we discover the truth.” Dimmit replied calmly.

John wanted to punch the man.

“Our team manager had been attacked. He was in coma and the person who put him there was still out walking around.” Snapped John.

Dimmit gave John a simpering stare. John’s anger flared.

“Victor Trevor had beaten and raped Lenard Wilderbrant. He was abusive to Sherlock. Broke his arm. And no one believed us. Trevor was allowed to go free.”

“So you shot him?”

“NO!”

“But you wish you had?”

Before John could answer the door swung open. A compact woman with pale blonde hair marched into the room.

“This interview stops now.” She said with a slight Welsh accent. She placed a sleek black briefcase on the table, blocking Dimmit’s view of infuriated John.

John grabbed the edge of the table with both fists. His knuckles were turning white with anger.

“Who the devil are you?” Dimmit barked.

“I am Dr. Watson’s solicitor. You are prohibited from speaking to him again unless I am present.” The woman said as she removed a card from her jacket pocket and passed it to John. He took it and read the embossed name on the it. Isabella Chatwells.

Dimmit eyes flashed in anger and he stood up. “Is she really your solicitor?”

John glanced back at the card and then up at the woman’s round face. Her eyes were periwinkle blue and her small mouth had bright red lipstick on it.

“Yes.”

Dimmit cursed and slammed the file folder down on the table. It made a whish sound as papers slipped out of it.

A smug smile came to Isabella’s red lips.

Dimmit forced himself to calm down. His fingertips pulled the scattered papers back together. “He isn’t under arrest. He is not being formally questioned.”

“Then we will leave.” Isabella Chatwells said.

John stood up then hesitated. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m tired of being accused of something I didn’t do.”

Isabella gave John a quizzical look. “I don’t recommend you answer any questions when you are this upset.”

“I just want this over with. As soon as he realizes I’m not guilty, then he can finally go and look for the person who killed James.”

John pulled a chair out for Isabella then sat down beside her. He stared back at Dimmit. “Get on with it.”

Dimmit shuffled through his papers and then looked down at his notes.

“You were with Sherlock Holmes when Victor Trevor was shot?”

“Yes.”

“And Holmes is your alibi for the time when Sholto was shot?”

“Yes.”

“That seems a little unusual given you claim you haven’t been in contact with Holmes for the last five years.”

John heard the question but didn’t feel like commenting on what Dimmit said. Dimmit seemed to get frustrated by John’s silence.

“Why would Sholto be at the Enclave?” asked Dimmit.

“I don’t know. He might have been looking for me there.”

“Why there?”

“I may have mentioned to him that I worked there before I enlisted,” said John.

“Why would be looking for you?”

John shifted in his chair. “We served together. We were close. It’s something soldiers do. Look for their friends when they get transferred.”

“Were the two of you friends?” asked Dimmit.

John hesitated. He was sure Sherlock was listening somewhere to the interview. “We served together. It’s something soldiers do. Look for their comrades when they get transferred.”

Isabella noticed the tremble in John’s voice. She placed her hand over John’s to stop him from speaking. “My client has provided you with an alibi for both murders. There is a photograph of a suspect in Trevor’s murder that doesn’t look a thing like Dr. Watson. And he has no idea why James Sholto was murdered. He has answered your questions and given all the assistance he can. The interview is over.” She stood up and grabbed her briefcase. “Come John. We are done here.”

Dimmit stood up and glared after John. “When I have multiple murders they always have two things in common. The weapon and murderer. We know the same gun killed Trevor and Sholto. And we have you. Nothing else connects these two men but knowing you.”

“I didn’t kill James Sholto,” John said plainly.

As John and Isabella reached the door of the integration room, Dimmit spoke up. “Your flat is presently being searched by forensic teams looking for evidence. You are unable to return to it until they are done.”

John flexed his fist again but didn’t say anything. He followed Isabella out in the hallway.

“He is wrong. You can go back to your flat but I recommend against it. It will only make you upset and then you might do something that they can use against you and bring you back in here.”

The thought of his gun came to him. If it was found, they would arrest him.

John was wondering what he should do when he heard a voice behind him. “That’s alright, John will be at my flat if you need to contact him. We will wait there until we are notified the police are done searching his flat.”

John turned to see Sherlock standing behind him. His face was stoic and unreadable. His iridescent eyes were fixed on Isabella, but John knew Sherlock was studying him as well.

Isabella glanced at John with a raised eyebrow. He closed his eyes and nodded his head.

“It’ll be alright. I’ll wait until I get the all clear before I head home.”

“Call me if anything changes, John. I’m on a full retainer so I am available to you day or night.” Isabella said as she reached for another card and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the card and looked at the name. Isabella didn’t wait for an acknowledgement from either man. She turned on her black high heel pumps and marched down the hall. People stepping out of her way as she passed.

“Did you call her or Mycroft?” John asked.

“I called him and told him what had happened. I’ve never met her but have heard about her,” said Sherlock, still staring down at the embossed card.

“I’m surprised he would offer to help. Is she any good?” asked John.

“She’s handled several high-profile cases with repeated success.”

John felt a twinge of regret and humiliation. “I can pay for my own solicitor.”

“I know. I just didn’t want you alone with Dimmit. He doesn’t like you and is wanting to convict you of Victor’s death. If he can use Sholto to do, he will.”

John sighed and glanced around them. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He walked down the hall with John walking beside him.


	30. I’m Going Under and This Time I Fear There’s No One to Turn To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finally 'talk'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, RL got in the way again. May not be able to update tomorrow either.

I’m Going Under and This Time I Fear There’s No One to Turn To

_The ripples grow into towering waves that crash_

It was dark when John and Sherlock left the police station. The taxi drove east with the two men sitting silently in the backseat. The situation felt both familiar and awkward at the same time. John wanted to talk. Wanted to tell Sherlock about James and himself, but he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t form. He didn’t know how to start.

_‘I started sleeping with this guy in the army because I was scared and I missed you.’_

That sounded pathetic in John’s mind. He knew saying it would be worse. So John sat beside Sherlock, wishing, and wanting but unable to do anything but stare out the window. Being near Sherlock hurt. Physically hurt. But being near him stirred something deeper. A primal need. John wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock. Slide his hand the few inches across the seat and smooth his fingers over the back of Sherlock’s hand. To reassure himself that his lover was there.

John shook as he felt a jolt run through him. ‘ _His lover.’_ When did he start to consider Sherlock his lover? When did he stop? John was confused and anxious. He wanted to flee the taxi while also wanting to never leave Sherlock again. His head was beginning to hurt and fear boiled up inside him. He knew Sherlock would never be this conflicted. Sherlock would never want the same things John wanted. He had already proven that when he didn’t wait for John to return to him. The Fates hated him, John thought because he was sitting next to the man who would always be the center of John’s world and who would never care.

The taxi rounded the corner and pulled up to the kerb. John was looking at the building as Sherlock paid the fare. He brushed passed John as he opened the door of the taxi.

Sherlock got out but John stayed rooted to his seat. Sherlock paused while he held the door open. He looked quizzically at John then said.

“If you like to . . . you did tell . . .”

“Yes, yes. I did.” John nodded and got out the taxi. He gave the building a quick glance then his eyes scanned up and down the street.

Sherlock had already turned and was opening the front door of his build. His hands shook as he unlocked the door to his flat.

The flat was on the first floor of a brown brick building on Montague Street. The front room looked out over the crowded street. The room was split into two different areas. A slight step up and raised area separated one area from the other. It was an average size room with a collection of hodge-podge furniture. The lower area was obviously a sitting area. John was surprised to see Sherlock’s beloved leather and chrome chair there. He though the man had abandoned it years before.

The raised area only had a table and chair. Sherlock’s laptop was placed on the table facing a wall placard with newspaper clippings and printed internet stories. There was a map of London in the center of the collage with stings radiating out to the various clippings.

John glanced around the room and had the immediate feeling of familiarity. He had never been in the room before but it was so much like Sherlock, it felt alive with the man’s personality.

Sherlock came in behind John and quickly scurried around the room. He was straightening papers on the desk, then moved to the bookcase to replace a book. He grabbed a teacup in a saucer and was rushing pass John when John reached out and gently grabbed his elbow.

“Why are you nervous?”

Sherlock stopped suddenly and the teacup rattled in its saucer. “Me? Why would I be nervous?”

“That is what I’m asking you? Are you afraid of me?” John turned and looked right into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock wanted to drop to his knees and beg John for forgiveness. But he was terrified John would see him as pathetic and leave.

“No.” Sherlock answered quickly then repeated slowly and calmly. “I’ve never been afraid of you, John. You’ve been the only person in my life I didn’t need to be afraid of.”

“Why are you nervous?”

“What makes you think I’m nervous?” Sherlock asked.

“You only clean up when you are nervous.” John glanced down at the teacup with its cold brown contents.

“Oh,” Sherlock frowned. “I just want you to feel . . .” The words died off.

“To feel what?”

“Comfortable.”

John let go of Sherlock’s elbow and Sherlock immediately missed the contact. He felt adrift and wished John would just reach out and grab him again. Save him from drowning. Instead John frowned and went to look at the collage on the wall.

John took a moment to study the wall and it’s patchwork of cuttings. There were newspaper clippings about robberies and drug confiscations. There were two ‘missing persons’ articles as well.

“What’s this?” asked John.

Sherlock had slipped into the galley kitchen and set the teacup in the sink. He rushed back into the room just as John spoke.

“I’ve been tracking a spider.”

“A what?”

“A criminal master mind. Someone who is orchestrating a series of crimes around London.”

“But these are all different crimes,” John said as he pointed to one article. “Here’s a murder and there’s a robbery. This one is bank robbery and this one is a jewelry store. How can these all be connect?”

“How are Victor’s and Major Sholto’s murders connected?”

John turned suddenly and glared at Sherlock. The detective realized he had mis-spoke. He actually winced.

“John, the odds against you actually knowing someone who has been murdered are quite high. Make that two individuals, the odds increase logarithmically. The odds of having both men murdered with the same weapon and not be connect are astronomical. So we must consider there is a connection. I agree that you are not the connection, but I need more data before I can solve this.”

John frowned. He took a moment to look around the room again, avoiding Sherlock’s penetrating eyes. A wave of sadness came over the doctor as he looked at Sherlock’s new world. A world he was not included in. There were no picture of the two of them. There were no mementos of their years together. It was as if John had never mattered to Sherlock. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to shout at the man. But John knew he couldn’t. He didn’t have any mementos either. Everything he had when they were living together had been taken away from him. Whom ever had packed those boxes made sure there were no reminders in there of Sherlock for him. His only reminder was the one place in his heart he could never drive Sherlock out of. The one place that Sherlock owned and never surrendered.

It was obvious to John, that he didn’t dwell inside Sherlock the same way.

He started to speak but his voice cracked. He tried to cover it up with a feigned cough, then ask.

“What do you need from me?”

For a brief moment, Sherlock wanted to say, ‘ _all of you. John I need you. Only you.’_ But he didn’t. He compartmentalized his feeling and forced himself to concentrate on the crime.

Sherlock stepped closer. “Tell me about Sholto.”

“We served together.”

“More than that. Was there a specific reason he would have come looking for you. You’ve been discharged for how long?”

“Over six months. But the last time I saw him was over a year ago,” John said. His voice softened as he remembered Sangin.

“A year ago? Why so long?” asked Sherlock. He noticed John’s eyes lost their focus.

“I was shot.” The answer was simple - the implications were great.

“Why didn’t he contact you when you were recovering?”

John glanced around the room again, then he walked pass Sherlock and sat down in one of the chairs. Sherlock watched him and waited until John sat down before he sat in the opposite chair.

“I was shot in Sangin just outside of the camp walls. I was med-vac’ed out to Bastion. Then from there to Landstuhl in Germany. An American base. He could have been looking for me but because I was on an American base he couldn’t reach me,” explained John. “After my last surgery, I was discharged in Germany. I received transportation back to England and ended up in London.”

“You didn’t try and contact him?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Or the other men in your company?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t . . .” John trailed off and looked away. Sherlock saw the look of extreme sadness in John’s eyes before he turned.

The detective waited for John to continue. The silence in the room was broken by the sound of traffic outside. Horns and people talking. The sounds of London. Finally, John spoke.

“I thought he might come looking for me and I didn’t want to be found.”

“Why didn’t you want to see your former comrade? Did he do something to you?” Sherlock fought to keep his voice level and calm.

“No, he was a good man. A kind man.”

“Good and kind men don’t usually get themselves murdered. Did he hurt you like Victor hurt me?”

John looked back up at Sherlock with anger burning in his eyes. “NO! James was a good man! He would never hurt me like that. He . . . he . . . he was my friend!”

John jumped out of the chair and started to pace. Sherlock watched him. He could see the turmoil John was going through. Sherlock slowly stood up and went to stand in front of John, blocking his pacing.

“He was a good and kind man that you were avoiding. The most common reason to avoid someone would be for emotional reasons or that you owed him something. Did you owe Sholto something?” asked Sherlock.

John paused and looked up at Sherlock. “No,” he whispered.

“So it was an emotional reason. You cared for him. He cared for you.”

John stared back at Sherlock. A veil seemed to cast over John’s dark blue eyes. Sherlock wondered what had the man seen when he was in Afghanistan. What had John endured?

“He loved you.” Sherlock whispered. Afraid how the words would make him feel. The knowledge that someone else had loved John like he had. That maybe – just maybe, John had loved someone else.

“We became lovers.” John’s eyes were swimming with tears. “It started after an ambush. It was sudden and intense – and I won’t regret any of it.” The words carried a core of steal to them although John’s voice was shaky.

“He came looking for you because he wanted you back.” It was statement and John nodded his head in agreement. “He wanted to . . .” The realization hit Sherlock like a brick to the head. He felt is insides twist. “He wanted to ask you to marry him?”

John swallowed audibly before he struggled to answer. “He asked me in Sangin to marry him. I said no. That’s the reason I sitting outside the camp walls when I was shot.”

“You were shot because he asked you and you said no. Could he have been the one who . . .?”

“No, it was the Taliban,” John answered Sherlock’s unfinished question.

“He asked and you said no. He was a good man. A kind man. Why did you say no?”

“Because . . .” The first tear streaked down John’s face. He fought against his emotions as he quickly wiped it away. “Because he wasn’t you.”

The world faded away. The sounds of the traffic outside disappeared. The room they were standing in no longer existed. All there was and all that matter was the two of them. Standing face to face. Mere inches apart. Yet so tightly woven together, neither time nor distance mattered.

Sherlock moved slowly for fear John would bolt from the room. He moved slowly and slipped his arms around the body he had cherished. Pulling John tight to himself. He granted himself a deep breath of a scent he had almost forgotten about. John. Fresh and pure. Masculine and warm.

Sherlock pulled John closer to him, as the doctor finally let the pressure and the pain wash over him. John cried openly into Sherlock’s chest. The collar of the detective’s shirt became damp with John’s tears.

“He was my friend and I loved him, but he wasn’t you.” John repeated over and over again.

Sherlock’s own eyes unable to focus as tears swelled and slipped from them. There was just one more step Sherlock needed to take. Carefully he cupped John’s cheek and twisted John’s face up towards his. They looked at each other through tears. Then leaned into each other and kissed. The warm brush of skin to skin. The slight taste of menthol and tea.

It was chase and slight. A breath of barely not even being there. And it was perfect. They slipped back and looked into each other’s eyes again.

“John, please . . .”

“What Sherlock?”

“Please . . .”

“Anything, my love.”

~221~

They kissed and kissed. Warm, affectionate kisses than were for their own sake. Not meaning to lead towards anything more than to just be together. Then they kissed some more. Moving to the sofa, then leaning against the wall leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. Then into the bedroom.

It was morning. The room was warm. The sun tried to pierce the drawn curtains but failed, giving the room a golden hue. The two men laid on top of the covers. Facing each other and naked. Fingertips slid over skin. Touches and soft strokes to assure each other this was real.

Sherlock’s hand smoothed up John’s thigh. The four-inch scar was visible.

“This is a knife wound,” Sherlock said confidently.

“Got into a fight with an Afghan native who didn’t like British soldiers.”

“You’re limp was psychosomatic.”

“It was a very big knife,” John said as he shifted under Sherlock’s touch.

The detective’s fingers probed the scarred flesh.

“Smooth blade, not serrated?”

“Yeah,” John hummed as he leaned closer and kissed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock’s attention was still set on the injury on John’s leg.

“It looks like a clean cut. Shouldn’t have been too painful,” Sherlock asked.

“It’s a fucking knife wound, Sherlock,” John grunted as Sherlock’s fingers pressed down on the puckered skin. “The man wanted to kill me.”

Sherlock made a desperate sound deep in his throat. The thought of losing John came sharp and painful to him.

John’s hand slipped down from Sherlock’s face to a jagged semi-circle scar on Sherlock’s abdomen.

“This isn’t a knife wound.” John let his fingertips carefully examine the healed scar. There were small dots where stitches had been placed. The edges of flesh had not been as carefully aligned so the scar thickened then narrowed.

“Broken bottle,” Sherlock said as his hand wandered up John’s body.

“Broken bottle? What happened? I don’t picture you in pub fight.”

“No, I was tracking down a serial killer in Bristol.”

“He do this?” asked John.

“No, his wife.” Sherlock glanced up at John’s shoulder.

“The wife? Were they partners? I heard paired serial killers are rare.”

“They are but she didn’t know he was murdering prostitutes. No she was upset that he was being arrested and she would no longer receive his paycheck. Lestrade was putting handcuffs on him and suddenly she broke the bottle and came at me. Lestrade ended up arresting both of them. The husband for murdering four women and the wife for attempted murder of me.”

Sherlock’s fingers smoothed the outline of the scar on John’s shoulder. “You had multiple surgeries.”

“Yes, three.”

“But you didn’t heal well after the first one?” Sherlock’s eyes scanned the scar tissue as it puckered up over John’s skin.

“I came down with enteric fever before I was transported to Germany. I was pretty out of it with fever and delirium for several weeks.”

Sherlock frowned again and John reached up and cupped his face. “What is it?”

“I could have lost you,” Sherlock whispered.

“But you didn’t,” said John.

John glanced at the half moon scar on Sherlock’s abdomen, then he noticed Sherlock’s arms. The tiny pale scars of injections were noticeable in the warm skin of his elbow.

“I could have lost you,” he whispered. “Why did you do this? Was it me?”

Sherlock shook his head ‘no’ then sighed. “I started using when I was with Victor. It made things – tolerable.”

John felt a lump in his throat. He remembered how horrible it was growing up with his abusive father but he never thought of taking drugs to deal with it. He placed his palm over Sherlock’s heart, feeling the steady slow beat from within.

“Do you still?”

“No, the ‘Work’ is my new addiction.” Sherlock’s eyes sought out John’s. “He used to give it to me after he . . . well after he ‘gave it’ to me.”

John felt the return of burning hatred for the dead man. Sherlock glanced away but John’s hand tipped Sherlock’s face back.

“People leave me.” Sherlock said quietly. He glanced away again then looked back. His expression had become distant and shut off from John. “It hurt every time someone left. I began to believe that something was so horribly wrong with me that people would leave me. That I wasn’t worth anyone staying around for. I was frightened about being left again. So I let Victor hurt me just as long as he didn’t leave me. He used my fear against me.”

“I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry you ever thought you had to go through that. Were you alone after I left?” John asked.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the side for a moment then looked back into John’s. “I didn’t leave you to go off with someone else.”

John felt a knot release inside himself he didn’t know had been there. “Then why? Explain it to me.”

“I knew you were coming back. I knew if I waited you would return. But then you would leave again. And like everyone else, you would never come back to me. I would be alone again. I thought if I was the one to leave that maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. I thought if I walked out the door first, then I could be stronger.”

John wanted to cry. “Did it work? Did it help?”

“No, I hated myself more. That’s why I went to Frankie’s and got my first hit. After that, I don’t remember much. I woke up places I didn’t recognize. I was around people I didn’t know. I just wanted to . . . it doesn’t matter now.”

“Tell me,” John prompted.

“Lestrade found me in a warehouse. He got me to the hospital before I died. I was – disappointed. I snuck out of the hospital and went to try it again. Mycroft found me that time.”

“He put you into rehab?” asked John.

“He did more than that. I was put into a conservatorship. I am not my own person. I had to follow his every whim to be allowed out of the sanatorium. I have to check in with him every week and he has people following me.”

John couldn’t imagine how horrible it had to be for Sherlock. How much he had suffered since John left.

“Sherlock, do you want to harm yourself again?”

Sherlock looked deeply into John’s blue eyes. He saw the warmth and concern there. He also saw what he thought he would never see again. Honesty. John was here with him. He was in Sherlock’s bed and holding him. John wanted to be here with him. John wanted him.

“Not anymore. Not now,” he whispered.

The final weight was lifted from John’s chest. He knew he couldn’t wait a moment longer.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you with all of my heart.”

Sherlock lunged forward and captured John’s lips. The words repeating in his head as he tasted John’s mouth. _He was loved. He would always be loved._

John eagerly returned the kiss and wrapped his arms tightly around the other man. The kisses began greedy. The touches began more demanding. John and Sherlock’s bodies rubbed together in a familiar dance as their desires grew.

“I wish to speak to both of you before you proceed.”

Mycroft’s voice came through the closed bedroom door. It felt like ice water being thrown on the two men. John tensed, ready to fight, while Sherlock growled and rested his forehead on John’s shoulder.

“Go the fuck away!!” Shouted John as he held tightly to Sherlock.

“We can’t,” Sherlock whispered.

John twisted and looked up at the man resting on top of him. “Why?”

“The conservatorship. I have to obey him or he will have me locked up in a sanatorium again.” Sherlock tried to roll off John, but the doctor wouldn’t let go of him.

“You must be joking.”

“No, I told you, I’m not my own person.” Sherlock pushed up on his knees as John’s arms fell away from him.

“But . . .”

“John, I’m sorry. He doesn’t like you. He will demand I send you way.”

“I promise you, hell will freeze before that happens.”


	31. It’s Easy to Say but It’s Never the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft confronts Sherlock and John.

It’s Easy to Say but It’s Never the Same

_The waves grow into a tsunami_

Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock’s favorite chair. His ubiquitous brolly perched between his perfectly shined shoes. Mycroft was wearing a navy-blue suit and crisp white shirt. The silver tie, with the perfect Windsor knot, intensified Mycroft’s blue eyes. His face was placid and unremarkable given the fact he had just interrupted his brother and his brother’s lover.

John and Sherlock were not as calm or neatly dressed. Sherlock was barefoot with only his sleep pants on and a dressing gown. John, also barefoot, was in a vest and his jeans.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft,” Sherlock asked standing in front of his brother. John by his side.

“I felt my presence was necessary at this moment.”

John growled and stepped forward but Sherlock grabbed his elbow and pulled him back.

“Once again, you are mistaken. Now leave. John and I wish to be alone.”

“I was under the impression that you required my presence. Isn’t that the reason you contacted me, Sherlock? Didn’t you want me to intercede on John’s behalf?” Mycroft look superiorly at his brother. “I did so for your protection, Sherlock. If anything unpleasant happened to John, I believe your sobriety would be compromised. I only assisted John to shield you.”

“We don’t need your protection, Mycroft. Get out!” John growled.

“Well, that won’t be possible. Despite my attempts to assist in your defense, John, my sources tell me that an arrest warrant has been issued for you,” Mycroft said indifferently.

Sherlock squeezed John’s arm. “Why? What evidence do they have?”

“Apparently, there was a witness. Someone stated they saw John Watson at the Enclave at the same time that James Sholto was murdered.” Mycroft seemed to enjoy giving the two men the bad news.

“A witness!?” John shouted. “Impossible. I haven’t been there in years.”

“A complete description was given. Including the clothes you were wearing. Clothing that was found in your flat and removed by the forensic team. They are being checked for GSW at this moment.”

“But John was with me,” demanded Sherlock. “There was no way he could have murdered Sholto.”

“The police are now under the opinion that you are lying for your former, or should I say, present lover.” Mycroft pouted and stood up. “I told you Sherlock that reconnecting with John Watson would be detrimental to your recovery. I will have to reconsider if you should be allowed any further association with the Scotland Yard.”

“No!” Shouted Sherlock as John barked, “You bastard!”

Mycroft simply frowned and looked unimpressed. “Honestly, what choice do I have?”

John stepped closer to Mycroft and leaned into his face. “I called you on you being a failure in regard to Sherlock’s safety and you got your feelings hurt. You are punishing Sherlock because you don’t like me. You are petty and small minded, Mycroft. A bloviating human shape pile of excrement.”

Mycroft’s eye grew wide as he leaned back, shocked.

“I’ve never . . .” he sputtered.

“I’m not surprised.” John glared at him.

Mycroft tried to compose himself. It took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “After Sherlock’s last overdose, I promised him that I would do whatever was necessary to keep him safe.” Mycroft turned and faced his brother. “You asked for my assistance in getting John out of jail and I did so. But it appears my actions were for naut. John is guilty.”

The punch was fast and quick. John’s fist connected with Mycroft’s face before anyone saw him move. Mycroft’s head snapped sideways as blood spewed from his nose. Mycroft stumbled backwards and fell into Sherlock’s chair. His legs and arms splayed out to the side. He looked like a gangly starfish with a bloody nose.

Sherlock gasped. His eyes wide. Partly excited for seeing his brother finally thrashed and fearful what Mycroft would do now.

“Mycroft, don’t you dare threaten Sherlock again. Don’t you dare threaten him in front of me!” John snarled.

Mycroft grabbed his white handkerchief and shook it open. He pressed the fine linen to his bruised nose and winced.

“John, like it or not, you will be arrested and charged with murder. And I fear that Sherlock might relapse. I can’t let that happen again. I won’t let it happen!”

“I won’t!” Sherlock shouted.

“He won’t because I will be here to help him.” John said.

Mycroft glared at the two men. In the back of mind his previous observations came to him. _‘Emotions will be your downfall, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage. Love is fleeting.’_ He wondered how he could convince there two idiots he was correct and he was trying to help them.

Sherlock’s mobile rang in the pocket of his dressing gown. He quickly took it out and looked at the screen.

“Lestrade just texted me. The police are on their way.” Sherlock looked at John. “You need to leave. There are people watching the building but if you go out the bedroom window you can get over to the roof next door. The roof entrance is always unlocked. Go out the backdoor.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted his brother. “I beg of you . . .”

Sherlock growled. “Take my phone, John. Yours will be traced. Leave it behind. Hurry, out the bedroom window."

John was going to argue but saw the conviction in Sherlock’s expression. He stepped closer and kissed Sherlock, intently. John grabbed Sherlock’s mobile and dashed to the bedroom.

“Sherlock, you are an idiot for letting yourself be deceived.” Mycroft had regained his composure. The bruise already blooming on his face.

“Mycroft, shut up.” Sherlock glared at his brother.

~221~

John quickly grabbed his clothes and went out the window of Sherlock’s bedroom. He easily made it over the roof to the building next door. Just as Sherlock had said, the door was unlocked. He stepped inside the building and then got the rest of his clothes on. Buttoning up his shirt and putting his jacket on. He glanced down at Sherlock’s phone and reread the text from Lestrade. John had only minutes before the police would be pounding on Sherlock’s door.

John tied his trainers on and ran down the steps to the back door of the building and out into a bare patched garden. He was out the gate and into the alley in seconds. As he started to walk down the street, the sound of police sirens reached him. He was skipping down the steps of the nearest tube station as Sherlock answered the knocking at his door.

John road the trains for hours, waiting for nightfall. It was dark when he returned to his flat. He remained hidden behind a skip near the end of the street, using his combat training to protect himself. He watched to see if the same person walked passed his front door more than once. He paid attention to anyone who was looking at the flat from windows. He did see a car sitting across from his front door. There were two men in the front seat. Apparently, the flat was under observation.

He went around the back of the building and to the window for his bathroom. It was small and narrow. He took off his jacket and wrapped it protectively around his forearm. With a single sudden slam with his forearm the window broke. The frosted glass landing in the bathtub under the window. John laid his coat over the edge of the broken window and carefully crawled in.

He stood completely still and listened. He waited in case someone else had heard the breaking glass. There were no shouts or whistles. No one came running down the street. There were no sounds from inside the flat. Slowly, John opened the bathroom door and stepped into his flat. The room was very dark, but John was positive he could negotiated it. There was very little furniture for him to worry about walking into as long as the police hadn’t rearranged things too much. He walked to his bedroom. The bed had been stripped of its sheets. The wardrobe’s doors were open and John noticed most of his clothing was missing.

John hoped the forensic team hadn’t been overly thorough. He crawled onto the bed and reached between the mattress and the wall. There was a hollow place in the wall that had been cut for plumbing. John reached into the hollow next to the pipes and found what he was looking for. His Sig Sauer 9mm. He pulled it out and rolled over onto his back. It felt good to have the weapon in his hands again. He ejected the magazine and checked it. Then reloaded the weapon and set it down on the bed.

John stood up and went to his wardrobe. He stripped out of the clothes he was wearing and grabbed a black jumper and a pair of black jeans. He found his old combat boots and put them on. He slipped the Sig into the waistband of his jeans, at the small of his back. Then he put on a different coat than the one he had been seen in by the police.

He looked out the window in the front of his flat, making sure he didn’t move the curtains. The car was still parked across the street. The two men were just sitting there. John cursed. He didn’t want to climb out the bathroom window. He couldn’t do it without getting muddy from the garden.

He reached into his pocket and took out Sherlock’s mobile and dialed 999.

“Nine, nine, nine, what is your emergency?” The board female voice asked on the other end of the line.

“I smell gas. I think my building is full of gas.”

“Address?” The woman’s voice was now intent. The words were crisp and sharp.

John gave the address of a building halfway down the street from his. In the opposite direction of where the men were looking. Within five minutes, firetrucks and police cars came rushing to the address John gave. The street was lit up by the flashing emergency lights and the blaring of sirens. Firemen were rushing into the building and banging on doors to wake up residents. The police were blocking the traffic.

The men who had been staking out the flat, got out of their vehicle and turned to watch as people came rushing out of the building, screaming, and shouting. The entire street was now awake and people were coming out to the street to watch. Crowds gathered and the flashing lights added accents to stark faces.

John opened the front door of his flat and walked out. He quickly climbed the few steps up to street level. He paused for a moment to look like everyone else watching the street. Then he turned and walked away. The two men who were supposed to be watching the flat were captivated by the firetrucks and police just a few buildings away, as John disappeared.

~221~

Dimmit and his men spent most of the day at Sherlock’s flat. They had searched the flat, opening cupboards and emptying drawers. Then Dimmit turned his attention to Sherlock. He questioned Sherlock about where John Watson was. He looked at the collage of various crimes pinned to Sherlock’s wall and asked about that. He threatened to arrest Sherlock and tried to embarrass him by bring up his drug use. Sherlock was unfazed and completely uncooperative. Mycroft sat quietly in the corner with dried blood on his white shirt and a deep purple bruise on his face. When Dimmit and his men left, Sherlock turned to Mycroft.

“You can leave too.”

“Contrary to what you insist on believing, Sherlock, I do care about you.” Mycroft said sadly. “It has never been my intentions to cause you pain. And I do recognize how important Dr. Watson is to you. Even though I believe he will only bring you disappointment. I know I can’t prevent you from caring for the man therefore I will assist where I can.” Mycroft reached into his briefcase and removed a plastic CD case.

He held it out to his brother.

“What is this?” Sherlock asked as he took it.

“The case file on the investigation into Victor Trevor’s murder. I believe we both know whoever was responsible for Victor’s death is also responsible for Sholto’s death. And more than likely will be after John too.”

Sherlock looked up at his brother. “You want to help us? But you said you didn’t want John around. You threatened to stop me from working with Scotland Yard.”

“Brother dear, think,” Mycroft said sarcastically. “If John had been here when the police arrived, both of you would be in custody right now. John for murder and you for harboring a fugitive. By forcing John to flee, you are now able to help him. Even if he is arrested, you are at liberty. Everything you need should be on that disc. The investigation report, interviews, autopsy report and crime scene photos.”

Sherlock glanced back to the CD case in his hand. “Mycroft – I still am . . .”

“You are still my brother. And I still do care, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked at his brother. “Sentiment, Mycroft?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, that would mean you are human, and we both know that isn’t true.”

A quick sharp smile came and went from Mycroft’s face. He winced at the pain it caused. Mycroft lightly touched the side of his noise.

“I sincerely hope my sacrifice will someday be appreciated.” He reached down and picked up his briefcase. “Well then, I am needed elsewhere.” He started to walk towards the door, then spoke again without looking at Sherlock. “And thank you for the information regarding your method of egress from the flat. I will make sure that the roof access door of the neighboring building is locked and bolted.”

Mycroft walked out of the flat without a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that was the best insult I ever wrote. A bloviating human shape pile of excrement.


	32. I Let My Guard Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos. The story is almost over. Just a few more chapters. I hope you will continue to read it.

I Let My Guard Down

_The waves grow into a tsunami that destroys._

Sherlock hands were shaking as he forced himself to focus. He had printed out the reports and the interviews from the disc. Sherlock had tried to delete the memory of Victor and his death from his ‘Mind Palace’ years ago, and for the most part he had. Most of the evidence before him seemed new and fresh. He found John’s interview and his own. He read both. The two interviews disagreeing just enough to be suspicious without contradicting each other. He tried to read them with an unbiased eye but he couldn’t. An image of the John he knew five years ago came back to him. Young and frightened. Wanting to please with deep blue eyes that always looked at Sherlock with adoration. Sherlock quickly put the interviews to the side and pushed the memories away.

He looked at the crime scene photos. He looked at the autopsy photos. He should have been appalled by what Victor looked like. His face bloody and bruised. The dark mass across his chest. The single bullet hole at the base of the skull. Victor was kneeling when he was shot from the back. Sherlock stared at the photo. Something deep and hidden inside of him stirred. It was ugly and painful. Sherlock pushed it away. He was afraid to look at it. Afraid to acknowledge what it was. It made his skin crawl.

Sherlock turned to photograph over and read the next page of the report. Victor had been beaten up before he was shot. That was interesting. It was a detail that didn’t come out any of the interviews. Dimmit never mentioned it to either Sherlock or John. Sherlock wondered why. If there was a beating beforehand, the murder becomes more personal. More intentional. Someone wanted Victor to suffer before he was murdered. Someone choose to prolong the killing. But the actual shooting was tactical. Professional. Not personal. There was too many contradictions.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared at the printouts. He thought about what he had said earlier to John. _‘Victor used to give it to me after he . . . well after he ‘gave it’ to me._ ’ Why did Victor have heroin? He didn’t’ remember Victor using it?

Sherlock forced himself to think. _‘Of course, he was dealing. He either sold to Frankie or bought from him and then sold it to his numerous acquaintances in the City.’_ Victor dealt drugs. That more than doubled the number of suspects. If someone was using Victor’s murder as a message to other small-time dealers, then the beating beforehand made perfect sense. It made more sense that Victor was murdered because of drugs than John shooting him over jealousy.

Sherlock picked up the photo that was at the very bottom of the file. It was a grain picture of a man leaving Victor’s building. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remember this photograph. The man was wearing a ballcap and the funny yellow glasses. Sherlock remembered John had said something about those glasses. _What was it?_

 _“Those yellow glasses are for shooting. Snipers use them to sharpen their sights.”_ John’s voice played out in Sherlock’s head.

John thought the man might be a professional shooter. Sherlock looked at the picture again. The man was a tall with blond hair. He had very square shoulders and equally square jaw. Sherlock studied the man’s face. He stared at the scar starting under the brim of his ballcap, through his eyebrow and down his cheek, ending at his sharp jawline.

His hands quit shaking as Sherlock stared at the photo. He’s seen that scar before. He thought. Memories of people and places flashed rapidly through his mind. People and places. Where Sholto was murdered. Sholto at the Enclave. The Enclave and Frankie. Frankie and the stranger. Jim. Jim and his bodyguard. The blond man with the scar on his face.

Suddenly, Sherlock remembered. He saw the man’s face clear as day and he remembered. Sherlock looked down and saw the same rugged face in the grainy photograph. Jim Moriarty’s bodyguard, Seb. _But Seb what? Was Seb his name or was it short for something else?_

Sherlock thought back to his conversation with Frankie. Jim was a client of Victor. Victor helped Jim ‘hide’ his money. The more pieces slipped into place. Money for drugs. Drugs for money. If Victor had cheated Jim either with drugs or money both would be a motive for murder. And if Jim was sending a message out to others, the beating before the murder would be it.

He leaned back into his chair and sighed. He’d solved it. The murder for Victor Trevor.

“But what about Sholto? Why would Jim murder Sholto?” he said out loud.

Sherlock stood quickly and put on his coat. He knew the one person who could help him put the pieces together.

~221~

The lights were off at the Enclave. The street was dark in front of the club. Sherlock went up to the door and pounded on it. He waited several seconds then pounded again. He knew Frankie would be there. Frankie was always there.

“Who is it?!” he heard shouted through the closed door.

“Sherlock, open up.” Sherlock shouted at the crack in the door.

The sound of the keys being slipped into locks and bolts being pulled back. The door opened only a few inches and Frankie’s pudgy face appeared.

“Sherlock?”

“Let me in, Frankie. We need to talk.”

“Yeah? ‘bout what?”

But Sherlock didn’t answer the man. Instead he pushed the door open and brushed passed Frankie.

The dance club was dark. It smelled of disinfectant and stale beer. Sherlock stepped further into the dark. Disappearing from Frankie’s view as he did so.

Frankie locked the door and went over to the master box. He flipped a switch and room lit up with a stark white fluorescent light. It made the club look smaller and more dingy. Sherlock glanced around then back to Frankie.

“Victor sold drugs for you didn’t he?” Sherlock asked bluntly.

“What?” Frankie looked frightened.

“Victor – he always had heroin available. You supplied it to him. Just like you did for me afterwards. He worked for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock.”

“Victor was killed by Jim Moriarty and his bodyguard. And they killed Sholto too. Killed him here and you told the police it was John.” Sherlock took a step closer to Frankie.

The fat man didn’t take a step back. He just stared at Sherlock. Something had changed behind the man’s eyes. Something had altered about his expression. He no longer looked frightened.

“You wearing a wire or something?”

“No,” said Sherlock

Frankie’s expression shifted under his pudgy skin to something like resignation. But before Sherlock could understand what it was, they were interrupted. He heard the sound of clapping coming from the shadows.

“I told you he would eventually get it, Sebby.” Jim smiled and walked out of the darkness and towards Sherlock and Frankie. As soon as he was close to the two men, the smile slipped from his face. His eyes scanning around the club with antipathy. “I’ve been waiting for you, Sherlock. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“And why would that be?”

“I have been expecting you to appear at my door. You took way too long to figure out who killed Victor. I was hoping you would have been cleverer.”

“Forgive me. It never occurred to me that Victor was involved with you.” Sherlock stepped away from Frankie. “So was it drugs or money?”

“Does it have to be so mundane?” Jim asked as he rolled his eyes. His head bobbing side to side like a snake’s.

“Then what was the reason you had your associate beat Victor bloody before shooting him?”

“Why you.” Jim smiled.

“Me?”

“Yes. You see I took a shine to you. You probably didn’t know it since we never formally met, but I knew about you. I had seen you and Victor together. You know the ubiquitous office parties and client get-togethers. I was actually there. As a client. Victor was supposed to help me funnel my ill-gotten gains into legitimate businesses that I could later remove the money from. He was my financial planner. But he was never very good at business.”

“He was laundering money for you.” It was a statement and not a question.

“Yes, and he was paid in drugs. He picked up a small package every two weeks from our friend Frankie.” Jim started to walk around the room again. “And then Victor would share his little packages with you.”

“Was that also you’re plan? To get me addicted to heroin?” Sherlock asked.

“Not at all. I wanted you to learn to enjoy the taste but not to become a gluten. I’m afraid I didn’t understand how weak you really were. That is why after Victor was dead and you decided to go on your little binge, I didn’t pick you up right away. Also your brother was becoming a bother. He still is one but after all this time I’ve learned he is only a gnat, so you and I can finally play our own game.”

“So you said that I was the reason that you had Victor murdered. But why would you have him shot?”

“It was fine when he was just slapping you around. I knew when the time was right, I would swoop in and rescue you from your abuser and you would be so grateful to me. You would fall at my feet and worship me . . .”

“But John beat you to it.” Sherlock interrupted Jim.

Jim’s expression turned dark and enraged. “Arrogant little nobody. He ruined my plans.”

“But you killed Victor after John and I were together?”

“Yes,” Jim stepped up to Sherlock again. He let his eyes run up and down Sherlock’s frame, smiling salaciously as he did so. “Victor damaged you. He had a bad habit of breaking his toys. That needed to be corrected. That was beating. The stealing of money from me, well, that was the bullet.”

“So you beat him to punish him for me and you murdered him because he stole from you.”

“Sherlock don’t be tedious. All that time you wasted with your medical student has dulled your senses. We’ll have to correct that. Good thing he left you when he did. You might have become boring.”

“John didn’t leave me. I left him.”

“Oh? Odd, that’s not how it appeared to me. I wanted to take you then but because of Victor’s death, many of my associates became fearful and I needed to concentrate on my business. I thought I had you one night, although, but you got away.”

Flashes of an evening came floating back to Sherlock. “I remember. You were insistent. It was – off putting.”

Jim raised a questioning eyebrow. “Well, no problem now. You will be coming with me. And you will be mine.”

“And if I refuse?” Sherlock asked.

“Seb will make sure you do not.”

The blond remove a gun from his pocket. Sherlock looked at it contemptuously then turned to Jim.

“You don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe you would actually shoot me. Aren’t I your ‘prize’?”

Jim laughed sardonically. “Yes, you are. And I’m sure you are aware a gunshot wound doesn’t necessarily have to be fatal. But it can be very painful.”

“You still haven’t explained about Sholto. Why was he killed? Was it because of John? Or was he another one of your associates like Victor?”

“Lieutenant Colonel James Sholto? Never met him before. Didn’t know a thing about him,” Jim said as he stepped over to the table and sat down. He patted the other chair, beckoning Sherlock over. Sherlock ignored the offer and remained near Frankie. “But he knew Seb. You see my darling tiger is military too. Or was. Colonel Sebastian Moran, formally of the Royal Commandos stationed in Iraq. He and Sholto served together before Sholto was transferred to Afghanistan. And Sholto knew that Moran was a deserter who had murdered his fellow officer during a disagreement over a poker game.”

“The bastard was cheating.” Moran finally spoke. His voice was gravelly and deep. “He cut me. Gave me this fuck’n scar.”

“You see, Colonel Sebastian Moran fled just before a court martial. He faked his death in Greece and snuck his way back to Ireland. I found him in a Belfast. He was a highly trained individual with a reputation for ruthless efficiency that would be of great value to my organization. I hired him on the spot and he hasn’t disappointed me. We were paying a visit to Frankie when low and behold, an acquaintance from Seb’s past walks through the door. Well, we couldn’t afford for it to spread around that Sebastian Moran was alive and well and living in London. James Sholto’s should have never gone looking for John Watson. He simply walked through the wrong door.”

Sherlock shook. He hoped John would never hear that. He knew how much John would blame himself if he did.

“Alright, enough of this. Time for us to go.” Jim clapped his hands. “I have meeting at nine I don’t want to miss.”

“Even a non-lethal GSW would cause you difficulty. Even if you have a physical on call, there is still the annoying neighbors who will be curious about the noise. And the blood trail. And the CCTV cameras showing you carrying my body out of here.” Sherlock was trying to buy time. He knew someone was watching what was going on. Surely, Mycroft’s sniffer dogs had followed him here.

“True, true. So what if I say that the target is not you, but someone else.” Jim turned and smiled again.

“Who? Frankie? He is an acquaintance but not someone who I would . . .”

“Who do you care about the most?”

Sherlock took a moment to stare at Jim, then his eyes skidded to the side. “John?”

“Yes.”

Frankie made a grunting noise deep in his throat, but neither Sherlock nor Jim paid attention.

“John is in hiding. You don’t know where he is.” Sherlock hoped he was right.

“Do you honestly think that your little pet is smart enough to hide from me? That he could escape?” The expression on Jim’s face turned cold and murderous.

Frankie glared. “Remember our deal, Jim.”

Jim shrugged his shoulders.

“Now come with us or I will allow Seb to not only shoot you in the knee, but also give the order to place a bullet right between John Watson’s dark blue eyes.”

Sherlock took a moment to consider what Jim was saying and weighed it against what he already knew. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Shall we?” Sherlock said noncommittedly.

“Yes, we shall.” Jim’s smile returned.

~221~

John had avoided the police at his flat. Now he needed to avoid Mycroft, which meant carefully moving through the city to avoid all the CCTV cameras. London boasted on having more CCTV cameras than any other city in the world. At that moment, John believed them.

He kept to alleys and back streets. He avoid major roads and crowded intersections. When he finally gave up and had to get onto the Tube, he pulled the collar of the jacket up and ducked his chin deep into the fabric. He was sure he was spotted but hoped he could lose any pursuers once he was off the trains.

He knew where he had to go. He knew who he had to see.

The Enclave was closed. The doors were locked and the windows dark. John didn’t hesitate by the front door. He went around the corner to the back door. The back door had an alarm on it but beside it was a set of steps that led down to another entrance often neglected. Or at least it was when he worked there.

John glanced around before descending the stairs. The area smelled of urine and garbage. Foul and rancid. He grabbed the doorknob. It was cool in his palm and slightly slippery. He twisted it but the knob didn’t turn.

“Damn it.” He hissed.

He looked at the door. It was old. Wooden and warped. The dark green paint was peeling off. He grabbed the doorknob again and gave it a hard twist. It resisted for a moment then snapped. The sound of breaking metal and cracking wood seemed overly loud in the empty ally. John glanced around to see if he had attracted any attention. No one called out. No one came down the alley to see what the noise was.

John pushed with his shoulder and the door groaned as it opened. Several boxes had be stacked by the door and they tipped over as John pushed his way into the basement. They crashed to the floor. Broken bottles and spilled alcohol covered the old stone floor.

“Whose down there?!” Came a shout down the interior steps.

John froze. He knew that voice. It was the person he came to speak to.

“I’ve got a gun!” Came another shout from Frankie Oskar.

John stepped inside and closed the door. He moved into the shadows and waited. He knew Frankie didn’t have a gun but Frankie might not be alone.

John heard the heavy tread on the stairs as Frankie slowly came into the basement. The bare lightbulbs along the ceiling turned on. The light cast odd and strange shadows around the room.

“You bet’er run, cause if’n I find you down ‘ere I’m gon’a . . .” Frankie’s threat trailed off.

Frankie stood on the bottom step and looked around the basement storage room. He looked pudgier than John remembered. His skin was flushed and his hair was much greyer now. John decided he had quit dyeing it. He cursed when he saw the tipped over boxes and the broken bottles of alcohol.

“Just what I fuck’n needed.”

“Hello, Frankie,” John said as he stepped out of the shadows. His gun already in his hand.

“FUCK!” Frankie shouted. Then he blinked his eyes. “Johnny!?” Johnny? Is that you?”

Frankie ran forward and wrapped his arms around the younger man. Pulling John tight to his body.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

Frankie, smiling broadly stepped back when John didn’t return the hug. He glanced over his shoulder and back up the stairs. Then he turned and looked at John.

“You nearly gave me a ‘eart attack! What are you doing down ‘ere?” Frankie’s voice was still shaky.

“We need to talk, Frankie.”

Something changed in Frankie’s expression. He went from being openly happy to see John to apprehensive. The difference surprised John.

“What about?”

“I think you know. Anyone else here?” John asked.

“No . . . I mean not now but someone will be here soon. You know – to open up and let the crowds in.”

“Frankie, there are no crowds. The front doors are locked and the no one is allowed in. The police wouldn’t let you open because of the murder. Quit lying to me. Is there anyone else here?”

The man looked resigned. “No.”

“Then let’s go upstairs and sit down and have a civilize talk.” John stepped closer.

“With that gun in your hand?” Frankie looked down at the Sig Sauer in John’s hand. “That ain’t your style, John.”

“I’ll put it away if you are honest with me. If I catch you in another lie, it comes back out. And by the way, I got very good with a gun while I was in the army. You should see how good I got.” John smiled.

“No thanks.” Frankie frowned and turned to walk back up the stairs. John followed.

Frankie went behind the bar and turned on some switches. The lighting under the bar came on as Frankie started to fill a carafe with water.

“I guess this is about you and Sherlock,” he said as he set up the coffee maker.

“It’s more about me than Sherlock.”

Frankie nodded his head. “You know you’re better than ‘im.”

John huffed out a small laugh. “Odd you would say that.”

“He’s a junkie.” Then Frankie looked up with a quizzical look on his face. “You knew that, right?”

“Not then, but I learned it recently.”

“I was proud of you, John. I mean you becoming a doctor and a soldier. Good job. Your mum would have been proud of you.”

John cocked his head to the side and frowned. He didn’t remember talking to Frankie about his family but maybe he had. It had been five years since he had seen the man.

Frankie poured two cups of coffee and walked over and sat down at a table. John joined him. The two sat sipping coffee that Frankie had made. Only a few lights were on, giving the room an unnerving appearance. Deep shadows stretched out from the corners and bent around the tables. John’s PTSD was beginning to flare. He kept glancing around expected an attacker to slip out at him.

“Tell me what happened to James Sholto? Who shot him?”

“I don’t know.” Frankie said looking down at the gun sitting on the table.

“Frankie, you know that’s not true. You told the police you saw me shoot him.”

“I did not! Who said I did!” Frankie shouted.

“Someone told the police I shot him. You were here when James was killed. You know it wasn’t me. Who shot my friend? Who lied to the police and said I did?!”

Frankie’s expression changed again from the normal friendly bar owner to something predatory and more deliberate. “Fuck’n Moriarty. He’ll pay. Look, I’m sorry. You’re friend, that soldier, he came in ‘ere, look’n for you. Told me that you used to tell ‘im about this place. He was real keen to find you. I told ‘im I hadn’t seen you and that he should check with Sherlock. He was leaving when someone else came in.”

“Who?”

“An associate.” Frankie looked away.

“Who Frankie?” John placed his hand on the gun.

“Jim Moriarty.”

John sat for moment and thought about the name. “Never heard of him.”

“Well, you wouldn’t. He’s careful about who knows ‘im. He deals in drugs and thefts and murder. Everything. He’s dangerous. Real dangerous.”

“And he shot James?” John asked.

“No, he and the soldier just glanced at each other. Didn’t even say bloody word. But Jim’s bodyguard. Your friend saw ‘im and he when crazy. He grabbed ‘im and said he ‘ad been look’n for ‘im. Sebastian Moran.”

“Sebastian Moran is the name of the guard?”

“Yeah, Sebastian Moran. He is one mean fucker. He just pulled a gun out and shot your friend. Like it was nothing. Right in front of me. I thought ‘Oh shit, I’m next.’ I wanted to ‘ide but Jim told me not to move. He asked Moran why he had shot the guy and Moran said the man recognized him. That your friend was the soldier who turned ‘im in to the cops in Iraq.”

“Turned him into the cops in Iraq? You mean he turned Moran into the military authorities in Iraq?” John asked confused by what Frankie was saying.

“Yeah, something like that. Your friend knew Moran was a deserter. Moran shot ‘im before he could tell anyone he saw ‘im.”

“And then Moriarty told you to claim I shot James?” John asked as he slipped his hand back away from the gun.

Frankie took a breath and slumped his shoulders, relieved. “No, he told me to say I didn’t see a thing and that I didn’t know who had shot the bugger. I don’t know who pointed at you as the shooter. I would never frame you. I’d never tell the cops you did it even if you did.”

John wondered about that for a moment.

“Would Moriarty claim I did it?”

“Yeah, he would, the fucker.”

“What did I ever do to him?”

“It’s not you, it’s Sherlock. He has a thing for Sherlock.”

John blinked his eyes. “He wants to hurt Sherlock?”

“No, he wants to own ‘im. Make him ‘is pet.”

John felt a wave of repulsion crash over him. He reached for the gun again. And Frankie leaned back in his chair, wide eyed.

“Where is Moriarty and Moran?”

“I don’t know. Somehow he knows when to show up.”

“Why do they show up here? What are you doing here that would need someone like Moriarty to show up?”

Frankie glanced away for a moment then looked back. “Just a few drugs. Nothing major.”

“You sell drugs to people?” John’s mind slipped to a question he had been afraid to ask. “You sold drugs to Sherlock?”

Frankie glanced away again, then back to the gun that was now in John’s hand. “Just a few.”

“Just after I left for the army. It was you who sold him his first hit, wasn’t it?”

“He was really upset, John. He was scared and upset. He thought he would never see you again.”

John could taste bile in his mouth. His finger closed over the trigger. Here was one of the people who had let Sherlock fall into the deprave world he lived in while John was away. Frankie was responsible for Sherlock’s first steps into addiction.

“How many times?” John asked. Frankie looked confused. “How many times did you sell him drugs?”

“I . . . I don’t . . . maybe six or seven times.”

The hand the gun was in began to shake. John could feel the disassociated determination of combat take hold. He could pull the trigger and not even wince. He could kill the man before him and walk out of the building and not worry what would happen to the body. It all came back to him clearly. How many times he had fired a gun at the enemy. How many times he had seen men collapse and die after he had fired. He was a killer.

John thought he was just like Moran. He could, if he allowed himself, be as heartless and cold as the man who killed his friend.

Frankie noticed John’s hand tighten on the gun. He watched as John dulled and became robotic.

“That’s not you, John.” Frankie said incredibly soft. Like he was speaking to a frightened confused child.

John glared at the man. “You don’t know who I am. What I am.”

“You are not someone who will kill in cold blood, John. You’re not. I know you.” Frankie seem unusually calm as he spoke to John.

“You don’t know me. You can’t.”

“I do. Better maybe than you know yourself. You’re not like them.” Frankie nodded his head towards the door. “You’re better than them. You survived when everyone else around you gave up. You did better than survived, you succeeded.”

He looked into Frankie’s eyes. He expected to see fear and hopelessness but he didn’t. There was something else there. It was almost like admiration.

John looked down at this hand. He looked at both of them. The same hand that was holding a gun had saved lives. The same hands that had stitched men together and stopped bleeding. Trained hands of a doctor. Not the hands of a killer.

John was not a cold-blooded killer like Moran.

“Frankie, you need to leave London. Leave England if you can. It won’t be safe for you here anymore. Just leave. Tonight if you can. No later than tomorrow. And don’t let me ever see you again.”

“Yeah, John. Anything you say. I was thinking it was time to retire. Too many ‘eadaches. I’m gone. I’m leaving now.”

John unlocked the front doors and walked out. He was shaking. The drop of adrenaline in his blood left him weak and disoriented. The whole conversation with Frankie seemed confusing.

He wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice. He wanted to make sure Sherlock was alright. He pulled the phone from his pocket and realized he had Sherlock’s mobile. He frowned as he looked at a text message that had come through.

‘ _Don’t trust Moriarty. Run.’_


	33. And You’re Not Here to Get Me Through It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Moriarty

And You’re Not Here to Get Me Through It All

John looked at the text message again.

‘ _Don’t trust Moriarty. Run.’_

Realization had sucked the air out from around him and he couldn’t breathe. John stood inside a vacuum. Sherlock was with Moriarty. Moriarty was with Moran. Moran had killed James. Moran and Moriarty would hurt Sherlock.

John started to shake with anger and fear. He held the phone tight in his fingers to keep from dropping it. He punched in the letters.

_‘Where did you see him?’_

There was no reply. John started walking quickly down the road, wondering who he could go to. Who would help him?

He texted another message. _‘Help me help Sherlock’_

_‘who is this’_ came the reply.

_‘John’_

The phone remained silent for a few more minutes. _‘if you really are John, where’d you meet Shaz’_

John typed rapidly. _‘He was my tutor for Chemistry when we were in school together.’_

The next text came quickly. _‘Southwark St. George’s Circus’_

John glanced up and down the street. A cab came into view and he waved his hand. The driver pulled over and John got in.

“St George’s Circus.” John said still looking down at the phone in his hand.

“Okay, mate.” The driver pulled away from the kerb and out into traffic.

John looked down at Sherlock’s phone again. He wondered if the message could be a trick. He thumbed through the contacts and found one listed at ‘Homeless Network’. A series of numbers were connected to the contact.

Adrenaline was pumping through John’s veins as he tried to type. His fingers shook and he had to redo the message twice.

_’20 quid for any information about location of Sherlock Holmes or Shaz.’_

He pressed the send button. His heart was still beating quickly. He felt his body slipping back into the rush he felt on patrol. He reread the message then typed a second.

_‘100 quid for the address he is at’_

Several messages started to come through. One said he was at the Tower. Another claimed they saw him walking into the National Gallery. John quickly disregarded them. Two came in saying they had seen him with two men. One was near the Enclave and the other was on Waterloo Bridge.

A third message came in from different number that said he had seen Sherlock with two men get out of the car at _‘Renfrew Road, Elephant and Castle house being redone_ ’

It was practically a straight line from the Enclave to Waterloo Bridge to Elephant and Castle Tube station. Or as least as straight as you could get in London.

John looked up at the driver. “New address.”

The man glanced up into the rearview mirror. His annoyance was obvious on his face. John ignored it.

“Renfrew Road, Elephant and Castle.”

The drive shrugged and then started to type the street name into the GPS on his mobile. A map quickly popped up and the man continued down the street.

Renfrew Road was a narrow street lined with the depressing, pale brick buildings. A housing projects from the fifties. Small one car garages protruded in front of each unit. Small windows prevented any view in or out of the flats. No gardens and nothing individual about any of the houses. Numerous two-story units connected together in a huge ugly block of small nameless flats.

John scanned either side of the road as the cab slowly drove down the narrow street. On the left side, he noticed a unit with a skip parked in front of it. Building scraps were piled inside of the skip.

“Okay, drive to the end of the block.” John ordered.

The drive grunted and kept driving down the street. He pulled to the kerb and John quickly paid the fare. He walked across the street and tried to look inconspicuous as he walked back up the street. His trained eyes started to pick out the places a sniper would be. Where an ambush would be waiting for him. His senses were on high alert as he moved down the street.

Passing the building that was being refurbished he didn’t notice anything suspicious. The windows were papered over with newsprint. A building permit was stapled to the front door. A heavy hasp for a padlock was screwed to the door. John noticed the padlock was missing. The front door was unlocked.

He kept walking until he was passed the building. He crossed the street and down an ally beside the ‘Section House’. A narrow path led behind the units. Trees and a five-foot tall brick wall blocked the view into the back gardens. But it also blocked anyone looking out of the units to see who was walking down the path.

John moved as quickly as he could down the path until he was behind the unit being refurbished. The windows in the back were also papered over but he noticed a CCTV camera mounted under the eaves of the unit.

John was watching the CCTV camera when he noticed a small attic window in each unit. It was centered on the roof at the back of each house. The roof of each house was connected to the house on each side making on continuous roofline for the entire block.

John glance over the garden wall of the unit beside the one he wanted to get into. There were broken chairs and a rusty bike in the yard. A pile of cardboard boxes were stacked near the back door. They had been there long enough to have been rained on several times and they were slumped. They seemed to be melting into the broken concrete. The back door was closed but the window in the door was broken. A piece of plywood covered the broken window.

John glanced up and down the alley for a second time before he jumped up and pulled himself over the wall and into the garden. He quickly knelt down and waited. He didn’t hear anyone shouting or the even the sound of dog barking. He moved to the house and tried the door handle. It was locked but broke easily when he forced it.

John stepped into the dingy kitchen. The smell of grease and fried food hung heavy in the air. A bin of trash laid overflowing in the corner. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. John listened but didn’t hear any sounds in the house. Either the owners were out or asleep upstairs. He removed the gun from the back of his waistband and moved through the house looking for the stairs.

Within minutes, John was in the attic and breaking the glass in the small window. He had to knock all the glass out and then place his jacket over the wooden frame before he could squeeze out through the window. It was small and a larger framed man wouldn’t have been able to fit.

Again he paused and listened. Nothing seemed out of place as he stood on the roof of the building. No one was shouting and there were no alarms.

John knelt down and slipped his jacket back on. He wished his men from Afghanistan were with him right now. He would have really loved having Blackwood and Murry backing him up. He realized it was insane him trying to do this alone, but he didn’t have a choice. _Or did he?_ He thought.

He pulled out Sherlock’s mobile again and flipped through the contacts. It was there. Lestrade’s number. He quickly typed in a message and hoped if anything did go wrong, then Lestrade would be there – eventually.

John wiped his sweaty palm down his jacket, then gripped his gun again. He carefully walked across the roof until he reached small window for the unit he wanted to break into. This one had recently been replaced. The window actually would open up, but it was also locked. John looked at it carefully and didn’t see any wires for an alarm system. But that didn’t mean anything, he realized. He could only hope.

He firmly tapped the butt of the gun on the glass once and it shattered inwardly. He reached through the glass and unlocked the window. He pulled on the frame and it lifted up and out of the way. Again it was a narrow squeeze and John barely made it through the small opening.

He was in the attic of the building.

This building was different from its neighbor. The attic appeared to be completely empty. Even in the darkness, it looked like nothing was being stored in it. The floors were swept and the cobwebs removed.

As quietly as he could, John moved towards the ladder and down to the first floor. The first floor was made up of three rooms and a bathroom. The walls were scrubbed clean of old wallpaper and fresh plaster had been spread on them. The floor was bare of rugs and the underflooring was exposed. The fixtures in the bathroom were new and the room smelled of cement and fresh grout.

John stepped off the ladder and waited to see if he was heard. No one seemed to be leaving any of the rooms. The floor appeared to be empty, but the house was not.

Somewhere on the ground floor, John heard voices. They were distant and calm sounding. No one was shouting. But that didn’t mean no one was in trouble. Carefully he started down the narrow stairs. Leaning over so he could look through the railings to see if he were exposed to anyone.

“You have a simple choice to make, Sherlock.”

John heard the male voice. The person had a slight accent – maybe Irish.

“Where is John?” John heard Sherlock.

He tightened his grip on the gun.

“He is safe for the time being. Well, when I say safe, he is not being . . . overtly harmed. I’m sure the men he is with are entertaining him. I found out he was very popular when he was in the army. Did you know that? He did love being fucked by a man in a uniform.”

~221~

Fear had propelled Sherlock. He knew it was foolish, but if it kept John safe, he would walk through hell with Moriarty and Moran. Anything to keep John from harm. Desperately he wanted to contact John, but John had taken his mobile and the police had taken John’s mobile. It was infuriating. He didn’t trust Moriarty but he couldn’t run the risk that Moriarty was telling him the truth and holding John somewhere.

He had allowed Moriarty to bring him to this house in Elephant and Castle. It was a boring unit in the middle of a boring section house, filled with boring people. If Sherlock hadn’t been frightened for John, he would have been screaming to get out.

The unit they were in was being refurbished. Moriarty led them into the building and turned on the lights in the front room. The windows were papered over and the flooring had been removed. Sheets of plywood had been nailed down and were waiting for the final flooring to be laid. The walls were freshly plastered and paint fumes indicated the recent redecorating.

Once they were inside, Moran held a gun to Sherlock’s head as Moriarty ordered him to strip. Annoyed, Sherlock removed his clothing while Moriarty watched with a voracious glint in his eyes.

Once he was naked, Moriarty ordered, “On your knees,”

Sherlock hesitated. He glanced at Moran who pulled the hammer back on the handgun. Sherlock rolled his eyes and knelt.

“How very predictable,” Sherlock complained.

Moriarty ignored him.

“You have a simple choice to make, Sherlock.”

“Where is John?”

“He is safe for the time being. Well, when I say safe, he is not being . . . overtly harmed. I’m sure the men he is with are entertaining him. I found out he was very popular when he was in the army. Did you know that? He did love being fucked by a man in a uniform.”

Sherlock wanted to punch Moriarty.

“Lying about John won’t help you, Jim.” Sherlock knew Jim Moriarty was only said that to get Sherlock off his game. But the unbidden image of John with other men came to him.

“Lying? Me? Don’t you know your precious Johnny Boy was spreading his legs for Major Sholto. Every time he got to.” Jim smiled at Sherlock. “Such a little whore.” Jim stepped closer and looked down at Sherlock. “I’m sure he sucked off every officer he came in contact with just to make his life easier in the army. Is that what he did with you? Flutter his blue eyes at you then grab his ankles so you would pay for his education. He was very good at prostituting himself to get his way.”

“John never did.”

“But you paid for him when he lived with you. You made it easy for him and all he had to do was suck you off and let you fuck him. Or was it the other way around. You were the one who got fucked. Well lucky day for you. You’re about to fucked again.”

Moriarty grabbed Sherlock’s chin and twisted it so the man had to look up into Moriarty’s eyes.

“This is what will happen Sherlock. I’m done waiting for you. You are mine now. It is your choice on how comfortable your life will be from this point forward.”

Sherlock glared at the man. Moriarty just laughed.

“If you behave then I will treat reasonably well and not share you with anyone. I’ll give you a nice place to live. This place. And I might even respect a safe word if you are really good to me.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Or else?”

“Or else, I will let Moran play with you for a while. He’s been wanting to break you. And when he is done with you, he will do the same to your little pet doctor. Oh yes, we have him. Don’t worry.”

Suddenly, Sherlock felt someone grab his hair and pulled it tight. It yanked his head back and he was looking up into the hideous mask of Sebastian Moran’s face. The man’s grey eyes were cold and blank. The scar running down his face was pale white next to the flushed skin of his face.

Sherlock could read what Moran wanted to do to him in the man’s expression. It would be painful and humiliating. He would suffer at Moran’s hands and the soldier would enjoy himself.

“Show me John. I want to see John. Prove to me he is with you and you will let him go.” Sherlock gritted out between clenched teeth.

“Trust me,” Moriarty whispered.

“Never.”

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on Moran. He didn’t see Moriarty’s hand moving until it slapped the side of his face. The slap stung and for a brief moment, Sherlock was blinded.

Moran let go of Sherlock’s hair and the young man slumped forward. The side of his face burning.

“Well, Sebby, it looks like Sherlock wants to play with you. Have fun, but remember I want something left for me.”

Moriarty stepped back from the two men. He went to the far side of the room and leaned his back against the wall.

Moran sneered down at Holmes then he backhanded Sherlock across the man’s face. Sherlock was knocked backwards off his knees. He crumpled to the floor. Moran stepped away from Sherlock and over to some construction supplies left by the builders. There was an air compressor. Moran turned it on and the engine chugged to life. The compressor wheezed as it built up pressure in its tanks. Moran picked up the compressor’s hose and attached it to a nail gun. He slipped a sleeve of ten-penny nails into the gun. He pointed the gun at the wall ten feet away from him and pulled the trigger. The three-inch nail embedded into the wall with a popping sound.

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He rolled over and tried to get to his feet, but Moran was on him in mere seconds. He knocked Sherlock back down to his hands and knees. Moran placed his knee between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and pushed him to the floor. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled it out to the side. He stepped down on Sherlock’s wrist to hold it in place. Then he aimed the nail gun at the back Sherlock’s hand.

~221~

As soon as John heard the sound of the air compressor starting up, he moved swiftly. The noise of the compressor drowning out the sound of John coming down the stairs. He made it to the door of the room just as Moran fired the nail gun at the wall.

No one in the room noticed John standing there as Moran pushed Sherlock to the floor and placed the nail gun to the back of Sherlock’s hand. One pull of the trigger and Sherlock’s hand would be nailed to the floor.

“I’m going to stake you out and take my time fucking you,” growled Moran.

Moriarty smiled salaciously as he watched.

There was a crack then Moran pulled the trigger on the nail gun. The sniper’s aim was off. The nail embedded in the floor less than an inch from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock felt something warm and wet splash across his back. He twisted his head to look at his assailant. The sniper’s face appeared to have exploded outward. Moran’s blood had sprayed across his back.

Moran dropped the nail gun then fell to his knees before falling forward. Sherlock rolled out of the way of the dead man.

Moriarty surprised by what happened stepped forward.

“Sebby!?”

He turned to see John Watson standing in the doorway with his gun pointed directly at Moriarty’s heart.

“John!?” Sherlock shouted.

“Are you alright?” John asked while keeping his eyes on Moriarty.

“Yes, yes, yes! You’re here! You’re safe!” Sherlock scrambled to his feet.

“Better get dressed, the police are on their way.” John said.

“But how . . . Moriarty said he had kidnapped you.”

“Sherlock, you need to learn that I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.” John said as he stepped closer to Moriarty.

“I’ll never doubt you again.”

~221~

Renfrew Road was lit up with emergency vehicles and police cars. Flashing lights of blue and red swept the street with alternating hues as people stood and watched the excitement.

Sherlock sat in the back of an ambulance with an orange blanket wrapped over his shoulders. John stood just off to the side, watching protectively as the EMT took Sherlock’s vitals.

“John, I’m wearing a blanket. Why am I wearing a blanket?” The irritated man shrugged the blanket off and just as quickly, the EMT replaced it on his shoulders.

“You’re in shock.” John said unable to keep the humor out of voice.

“I’m not in shock.” Sherlock gritted.

“No but you are being a brat. Stop it.” John smiled.

Sherlock looked up and saw the open and fond expression on John’s face. “Make me.”

John felt more than a warmth bloom inside him. It was more primal and more possessive.

“Okay, you want to explain this to me?” Lestrade said, as he walked up to the two men.

“I thought it would be obvious.” Sherlock huffed as he rolled his eyes.

John ducked his head and felt the need to make himself look small.

“Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran – who are they?” Lestrade sighed as he stared at the two men.

“Moran killed both Victor and James Sholto.” Sherlock said sitting up straight.

“Why?”

“Moriarty ordered him to kill Victor because Victor had been laundering money for Moriarty and stole some.” Sherlock didn’t want to admit that it was because of him. Nor did he want John to know he was to blame for Sholto’s death. “Moran killed James Sholto because Sholto was looking for him. Moran was a deserter and was wanted for murder of a fellow officer.”

John glanced sideways at Sherlock. Sherlock noticed something flash in John’s eyes. A recognition. Sherlock willed John to remain quiet.

“And why were you here tonight? Why did they kidnap you?”

“I figured out who they were. We came to stop them and well, Moran got the jump on me. John was forced to take the gun away from Moriarty and shoot Moran. It was as simple as that.” Sherlock lied beautifully. John thought he would have been a great actor if he wasn’t a detective.

Lestrade’s eyes switched back and forth between the two of them. “I don’t think so.”

“Believe what you want, Lestrade. I have capture you a double murderer. Well, sort’a captured. He is dead. I’ve solved two homicides in one night. You can take my word for it or you can waste your time listening to Moriarty, who is clinically insane.”

“Moriarty isn’t speaking right now.” Lestrade said.

John and Sherlock glanced at each other then back to Lestrade. The policeman hesitated then shrugged his shoulders.

“I want the two of you give your statements in the morning. Get out of here and don’t cause any more trouble tonight.” He turned and walked away. Lestrade glanced up and shouted. “Anderson! What are you doing with that nail gun?! Be careful or you’ll kill someone!”

Sherlock slowly stood up and John stepped forward, giving Sherlock an arm to brace on.

“Shall we go home?” asked John.

“Home?” Sherlock looked confused for a moment.

“Yeah, home.”


	34. I was Kinda’ Getting Used to Being Someone You Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spider is reveled.

I was Kinda’ Getting Used to Being Someone You Loved

The flat on Montague Street was warm and smelled of tea when Sherlock woke up. He laid in the tangle of sheets for a moment as the traces of sleep slipped from him and his brain caught up. His face hurt. He lifted his hands up and gently pressed on the bruises on either cheek. Memories of Moran and Moriarty slapping him came to him. Memories of the flat on Renfrew Road and the police. And John.

Sherlock sat up suddenly. He glanced to his left and the bed was empty. The sheets were cool to the touch. John had been there last night. They had talked until nearly dawn. They had held each other and kissed and spoke about the future. And John was gone.

Sherlock twisted and moved to get out of bed. His legs tangled in the sheet and instead of standing, he fell to the floor with a thud. His bruised knees protested the further insult to them. He struggled to stand he needed to find John. Get John back. Keep John with him.

His heart was racing and his mind was clouded with the fear that John was missing. He opened the bedroom door and stumbled out into the sitting room. His long limbs not quite working correctly as he tripped into the room.

John and Mycroft sat in opposite chairs. A mug of tea in John’s hand, lifted halfway to his lips as Mycroft stared curiously at his naked brother.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows into his hairline.

Sherlock’s eyes fleeted back and forth as his mind tried to compute the scene in front of him. John was dressed in the clothes he wore the day before. He was sitting calmly with Mycroft sharing tea.

“John . . .” It was a gasp. Relief.

“Sherlock, maybe you should at least put on a robe.” John smiled.

“At least.” Mycroft concurred.

Sherlock glanced down and noticed he was completely naked and flaccid.

“Sherlock?” John looked pointedly at his lover. “Clothes!”

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock asked nodding to his brother.

“Being an annoying dick as always. Now please, at least your sheet.” John sighed. “I’ll get you some coffee then maybe you can get an honest answer out of your brother.”

John stood up. Sherlock didn’t move as John stepped closer and pecked a kiss lightly on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Then John gave Sherlock a playful slap on his butt cheek.

“Go.”

Sherlock gave a salacious smile and turned back to the bedroom. He reached for his dressing gown, then instead grabbed the sheet from the bed. Wrapping it around himself like a Julian Toga, Sherlock reappeared in the front room with John and Mycroft. An air of superiority around him.

John rolled his eyes and handed Sherlock a perfectly prepared cup of coffee.

“Really, Sherlock.” Mycroft pouted.

“Are you here to sign the paperwork rescinding the conservatorship?”

“Don’t you think that is a bit premature?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock flounced into his chair. “No, not at all. Save time and sign it now, then you can fly away on your broom. I’m sure your flying monkeys miss you.”

John snorted into his tea as Mycroft drew a face.

“The agreement was after he was convicted in court.”

“Why wait? We captured your criminal. His network will collapse. Our job is done. Pay us.” Sherlock ticked off.

John smiled at his inclusion in Sherlock’s response.

“Are you sure that Moriarty is the ‘Spider’?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course he is. He had Moran do his dirty work. Moran was the face that everyone feared but Moriarty was the one pulling the strings in the background.” Sherlock said. “Victor Trevor used his connection in banking to help launder Moriarty’s money. Victor, being foolish, stole some of the money and Moran killed him as a warning to other members of the organization. Moran killed James Sholto because Sholto recognized him from Iraq. He knew Moran was wanted for murder and desertion. Moriarty didn’t even know who Sholto was when Moran pulled the trigger.”

John felt a wave of regret and guilt slip through him. He wondered if James would still be alive if the soldier hadn’t come looking for him.

“That doesn’t explain Moriarty’s fixation with you, Sherlock.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock gave John a quick glance and noticed the man was caught up in his own memories and guilt.

“Apparently, Moriarty met me when I was with Victor. He became – infatuated with me. It was his plan to take me away from Victor, but John was there first. After John left and I was – indisposed, he picked me up off the street. Things would have ended badly for me, but his flat was raided by the police that night and I escaped.”

Sherlock glanced at John and saw the anger written on John’s face. He wanted to reach over and reassure the man but it was better the truth come out and there be no more secrets between them.

“Yesterday, when I was at the Enclave questioning Frankie Oskar, Moriarty came in. He saw me there and took me. It was his intention to make me his . . .” Sherlock pale slightly and looked sick. “His pet. Plaything.”

“Oh, God.” John whispered.

Sherlock didn’t wait this time. He stood up and went to John’s chair. He knelt down in front of the man.

“But you saved me. Again. You stopped Moran and helped me get Moriarty. We are safe. We are together.” Whispered Sherlock.

John reached out and took his hand. Both men stared into each other’s eyes, letting the rest of the world fad away.

“But why didn’t Moriarty come after you while you were with John?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock and John turned to looked at him.

“What?” John asked.

“The two of you were together for almost two years after Trevor’s death. Why didn’t Moriarty kidnap you then? Was it because of John or his connections? Was Moriarty involved with John somehow?”

“WHAT!?” shouted John. “Connections? I don’t have connections!”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. He stood up and put a protective hand on John’s shoulder.

“I never met the man before last night.” John stated. “I don’t know anything about him but what Sherlock has told me.”

Mycroft frowned and rolled his eyes. “Are you going to tell me you were unaware of your father’s activities and his death.”

John looked like he had been slapped. His stomach did a flip and he felt he might vomit his tea.

“My father? My father was a bastard. I ran away from him when I was eleven. I didn’t know what he did or even that he was dead.”

Mycroft’s expression showed no remorse for breaking the news to John so cruelly.

“Your father was an enforcer for a bookie and helped extort money from local business.” Mycroft said coolly.

“I was a child. I didn’t know.” John repeated.

“He was murdered about a year after you and your sister left. Unsolved. It is believed it was a rival gang but there was some speculation that it might have been someone within his own organization.” Mycroft finished.

“All my father ever did for me was give me a black eye and broken arm. He was a brute and I hated him. I doubt any of his ‘associates’,” John accented the word sarcastically. “any of his ‘associates’ would lift a finger to help me or my sister.” John snarled.

“How do you know about John’s father and his criminal activities?” Sherlock asked.

“After my grievous lapse in regard to Victor, I made it a point to do thorough background checks of individuals in your life. It was the only reasonable thing to do.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“You consider what you’ve done to Sherlock reasonable?! The conservatorship? You’re as much a bastard as my father. And that is saying a lot!” John glared at Mycroft.

Mycroft set his teacup down and turned to completely face John and his brother. “I have not been the very best brother that Sherlock could have. But I have tried to be the very best I’m capable of being. Granted my skills were handicapped by Sherlock’s childish behavior.”

“He was nine years old. He was a child when you became his guardian.” John snapped.

Mycroft pouted. Disregarding John’s comment, Mycroft continued.

“It never occurred to me that Sherlock would take up with someone abusive like Trevor. I felt, and I am sure you could agree that Sherlock’s involvement with you, John, was an emotional reaction to his relationship with Trevor.”

“Emotional reaction? John saved my life. I love him.” Sherlock growled.

Mycroft ignored the statement, but John twisted and looked up at Sherlock. Affection blooming across his face.

“I repeatedly requested the two of you not see each other. But I realized Sherlock’s health and attitude seemed to improve around you, John. Despite your less than stellar background, I allowed Sherlock to stay with you. I didn’t accuse you of being involve with a criminal element, I was only contemplating as to why Moriarty didn’t interfere with Sherlock while the two of you were together. There must have been a reason that Moriarty would not touch Sherlock then. Something that prevented him from possessing Sherlock.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. They waited for the other to come up with the reason. The solution to Mycroft’s puzzle. Neither man knew. It was a mystery.

“It could have been anything.” Sherlock said turning back to Mycroft. “Have Lestrade question him and find out.”

Mycroft stood up and lightly tugged at his tie. “No one will be questioning Moriarty.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Why? What have you done?”

“It was not me, dear brother. Moriarty was found dead in his cell this morning. Stabbed repeatedly with a prison made weapon. Apparent homicide.”

“Who? Any clues?!” Sherlock leaned forward. A wild look came into his eyes and he reminded John of a greyhound ready to chase the hare.

“None. It appears whoever killed Moriarty had the assistance from the guards. An investigation is ongoing but we may never know.” Mycroft clapped his hands and smiled. “But there won’t be a trial. And without a trial there won’t be a verdict. As an English gentleman, my pledge to you is now voided.”

“NO!” Sherlock shouted. He lunged forward but John caught him.

“What’s happened?!” John asked.

“Mycroft promised to rescind the conservatorship if Moriarty was found guilty. He is going back on his word because Moriarty is dead.” Sherlock wanted to wrap his hands around Mycroft’s neck.

“Wait, let me understand – if you figure out who was running the criminal network, then Mycroft will quit telling what to do?” asked John.

“He will always dictate to me. But it was a chance to make him tear up the conservatorship.”

“But you figured out who ran the organization. It was Moriarty. Why is that not enough? Mycroft what more do you want?” John plead.

“I want assurances. There are still too many unanswered questions, John. Why was Sherlock not taken when you were together? How did Moriarty know Sherlock? Was Moriarty the ‘Spider’? Who is the real leader of this organization? I don’t believe it was Moriarty. He was seen too often. Who ever is responsible has kept to the shadows. No one has seen him. Who is he?” Mycroft waved his arm at an invisible foe.

“And if we find him, you will release Sherlock. You’ll rescind the conservatorship?” asked John.

Mycroft frowned as his gaze drop to the floor.

“I might consider . . .”

“No!” John growled. “You will rescind the conservatorship!”

“I will agree to rescind the conservatorship if you discover who the ‘Spider’ is.” Grinding his teeth as he forced himself to say the words.

“Or was because it was obviously Moriarty!” Sherlock shouted.

“Or was,” agreed Mycroft.

“Alright, then we will find your ‘Spider’ so you can squash it.” John pronounced.

He grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and turned the young man towards him. “Get dressed. We have a case.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile that came to his face. He grabbed both sides of John’s face and kissed the man firmly.

“I’ve dreamed of you saying that to me. Let’s go.”

~221~

John and Sherlock were in the taxi.

“Where are we going?” asked John.

“Connections, John.” Sherlock said as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

“Connection? What are you talking about? Those connections that Mycroft was talking about? My father?”

“Not your father, but there is someone who has a connection to Victor, Sholto, Moriarty and you. We’re going to talk to him.” Sherlock said as he read another text on his mobile.

“Who? I barely knew Victor and Moriarty. Who do I know who knows them other than you?” asked John.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Enclave and stopped. John looked up at the name above the door and then frowned.

“You can’t be right. How? Why?” John was confused.

“Let’s go find out.” Sherlock paid the driver and pushed passed John.

John hesitated and then stumbled getting out of the taxi. He paused on the street, again looking up at the sign. He remembered when it said the ‘Frankie’s Backdoor.’ It seemed like a lifetime before. Maybe it was.

Sherlock was standing at the door holding it open for him. John shrugged and started to enter.

“Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock hummed softly.

“Why?”

“Did you bring it?”

John gave a quick glance up and down the street, then shook his head. “The police still have it. Booked it into evidence.”

Sherlock frowned. “Shame, we could use it right now.”

John stepped into the dark building and Sherlock followed him.

The Enclave appeared empty. There was no music playing and the strop lights were turned off. The normally crowded bar area had the various stools flipped upside down on the bar top. The underlighting was turned off.

Frankie Oskar was sitting alone at his table on the dais. A bottle of expensive scotch beside him with a single glass. Frankie nodded his head at the two men and then waved his hand at the bar.

“Get two glasses and join me.”

Without hesitation, John went around the bar and grabbed two squat ‘double old fashion’ glasses. He walked over to Frankie’s table and hopped up onto the dais. He sat down as Frankie held out the bottle and poured John a glass of the amber liquid.

“I’ve been wait’n for you.” Frankie said.

Sherlock had held back. As John retrieved the glasses and sat down, Sherlock took a moment to slowly walk around in the room, looking at every wall and every table to see if there was anything out of place.

“I thought you were leaving.” John said before he took a sip. The alcohol burned slightly but the peaty smoky taste was smooth. “This isn’t well.”

Frankie laughed. “Not at two-fifty a bottle. Not for the punters.”

John lifted an eyebrow and held his glass out for a refill. Frankie eagerly poured it, then set the bottle down. Sherlock finally joined them and sat down too.

“Moriarty is dead.” Sherlock was somber and soft spoken. “Both of them are dead, Moriarty and Moran.”

Frankie didn’t say anything. The corners of his lips pulled down and he nodded his head again in agreement.

“But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked.

“One ‘ears things.” Frankie said.

“You led me to believe that you worked for Moriarty, but that wasn’t true was it Frankie? By the way, what is your real name?”

Confused, John glanced back and forth between the two of them. “What? I don’t understand?”

“The Venn diagram that includes Moriarty, Victor, Sholto and John is incredibly small. I’m not even included in it. The only person besides John is you, Frankie. You knew Moriarty and Victor. You bought and sold drugs from them here in your club. And John worked here as a barman. And Major James Sholto was murdered in here.”

Frankie took a sip of his scotch while his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

“You knew that Moriarty wanted me. It was you who called him after I left here. Moran picked me up and took me to Moriarty’s flat.”

“Yeah, he thought you was the dog’s bollocks. Just wait’n for the chance to get you away from Victor.”

“Then why didn’t he come after Sherlock when we were together?” asked John.

Frankie looked at John. There was something there behind his mask of an affable club owner. Something sadder. Distant.

“Because you told him he couldn’t.” Sherlock said. “You told Moriarty, John Watson was off limits.”

Frankie turned back to Sherlock. “Now how could I stop someone like Moriarty. Everybody knows he was the boss, not me. He was the one call’n the shots.”

“You told Moriarty that he couldn’t take me as long as John and I were together. Victor was murdered after he tried to hurt John here in the club. And Moriarty kidnapped me only after you learned that John and I were not going to see each other after he came back. It was you who was orchestrating everything. It was you giving the orders.”

“How could I do that? I’m just a fuck’n barkeep.” Frankie took another sip of scotch while his eyes were fixed on Sherlock’s.

“I always thought it was strange how you insisted on sitting at this one table. The only table raised up off the floor in here. It was that way five years ago and after you redecorated it stayed that way. A platform. A throne. The center of the web.”

Frankie smiled for a moment then took another sip.

“But wait . . .” John interrupted. “If Frankie was trying to protect me, then why did he tell the police I shot James?”

“I told you that weren’t me. That was Moriarty, the bastard.” Frankie hissed. “It wasn’t my orders. He did it on ‘is own. Thought I wouldn’t catch on.”

John turned and looked back at Frankie. “I don’t understand. Why would you do that? Who am I to you?”

“No one really.” Frankie said. “I only met you once before you came in ‘ere. But your mum . . . she was a totty. I fell in love with ‘er the moment I met ‘er. But she only had eyes for that bugger, Harold Watson.” Frankie practically spat the words. “He killed ‘er, you know.”

John swallowed hard. He felt a wave of revolution he hadn’t felt in years. This was even worse than listening to Mycroft recite his father’s criminal activities. This was part of his father’s life that John remembered. He was there. The flashes of it still played out in his nightmares.

“He hit her. He hit all of us. But he hit her the most.” John whispered.

“Yeah, if I ‘ad known. If she ‘ad told me. Well, things would have been different for you, John.”

“You killed him? You murdered John’s father?” asked Sherlock.

“No, that was a member of a rival gang, but I wasn’t in the mood to retaliate. It was after you and your sister ran away.” Frankie glanced over at John. “He was dead and your mom was dead. And I thought that was that. I never thought of ‘im again until you walked in the door with Sherlock.”

“You gave me a job. Did you think I would be a criminal like him?” asked John.

“No, no, no.” Frankie leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I was just happy to see you again. I felt – good having you work here. You ‘ave your mum’s eyes. The same blue. I just wanted you ‘ere.”

Frankie poured himself another glass of alcohol. “I made sure you were okay. I made sure you’d finish school.”

“You did?”

“Your scholarship – well, when that arsehole coach learned you were a poof – no disrespect.” Frankie glanced sideways at John.

John didn’t react to the comment. He had heard worse.

“Well, when he ‘eard, he was going to cut you from the team. I sent some boys over to explain to ‘im that was a bad idea.”

“You threatened the rugby coach so John could keep his scholarship?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah and I don’t regret it. John finished school. Top of ‘is class. Your mum would ‘ave been proud of you. But that don’t make me some kind’a criminal mastermind.”

A fleeting smile came and went from Sherlock’s face. “You’re the one who had the connections. You’d been doing this for years – decades if you were working when John was a child. And with Moriarty as your front man, you could hide in plain sight. Sitting here on your dais, watching the people dance around you like marionettes, without anyone knowing you were the one holding the strings.

“Prove it,” Frankie smiled back.

“You kept Moriarty and Moran away from Sherlock while we were dating.” John said feeling like his world had been tipped up on its side. “You stopped Moriarty from hurting me.”

Frankie turned and looked at John. Again John noticed something in Frankie’s eyes. An emotion that shouldn’t have been there – pride, admiration?

“Jim Moriarty was bat shite crazy. He treated people like objects. Not real. I didn’t want you to get caught in any crossfire. When you left for the army, I thought it was for the best. And as for Sherlock,” He nodded his head towards the other man. “It really didn’t matter any more to me what ‘appened to ‘im. Moriarty could ‘ave ‘im as far as I cared.”

“It mattered to me!” John’s voice rose. “I cared! Why didn’t you tell me about him? Or about my mum? What about Harry, my sister? Does she know you? What have you done for her?”

“Harriot? ‘aven’t seen ‘er. Don’t know a thing?”

Sherlock leaned forward. “You are the leader of a major international criminal enterprise. I doubt that you don’t know anything about Harriot Watson.”

Frankie frowned. “I found her in Birmingham. Got ‘er into rehab – twice. It didn’t take. She is still there. Barely getting by. She doesn’t know me from Adam. Doesn’t want my ‘elp.”

John was beginning to shake. “Did you tell Moran to kill James?”

Frankie turned and looked John in the eyes. “No. It was like I said. The soldier came in and asked about you and as he was leaving, Moran saw ‘im. He grabbed Moran’s arm and called ‘im a deserter. Moran shot ‘im dead before any of us knew what was ‘appening.”

John stared into Frankie’s face, looking for any sign of deception. There was none. James was dead because of a chance meeting. John was not to blame. He leaned back in his chair and took a moment to regain his composure.

“I’ve texted the police. They are on their way.” Sherlock said calmly.

“Liar,” Frankie said as he capped the bottle of scotch.

“Why? Because your contact in the Met hasn’t warn you?”

Frankie smiled again. “Let’s say you’re right and I’m some kind’a scary criminal mastermind – don’t you think I would be prepared incase you came in here and figured out who I was?”

John stared at Frankie then slowly closed his eyes. “There’s no evidence. Nothing that can be taken to court.”

Frankie didn’t say anything but the look he gave John was a confirmation.

“Everything points to Moriarty as being the boss and you were just a bar owner that was selling a little coke on the side.” John continued. “You should have left when you said you were leaving.” John said quietly. “You should have run.”

“I know. But I couldn’t. There were things you needed to know.”

“You stuck around to talk to me? To tell me?” John asked.

Frankie looked at John again. “You really do got your mum’s eyes. She was beautiful.” He took the last sip of scotch from his glass. “She shouldn’t ‘ave died. She didn’t deserve that.”

“Neither did James Sholto.” John whispered.

“No, I guess not.”

“The police are still looking for you, Frankie.” Sherlock said.

“Are they look’n for me or the that criminal mastermind you keep talk’n about?”

Sherlock paused then slowly nodded his head. “If the organization withered away, there is no reason to believe Moriarty really wasn’t the leader of it. Everyone will believe he was the mastermind.”

John looked up at Sherlock and Frankie. “What about Mycroft and the conservatorship.”

Sherlock reached over and took John’s glass. He took a deep swig of the drink and smiled.

“If the network is destroyed, Mycroft will believe Moriarty was in charge.”

“You need to leave, Frankie. Like you said earlier – get out of here.” John leaned forward and rested his hand over Frankie’s.

The older man glanced down at John’s hand then covered it with his other hand.

“The sharks are already circling. Moriarty had convinced so many people he ran everything, many people think it is up for grabs. I’ve made arrangements. No one will look for me.”

“But Frankie, you can’t just disappear?” John pressed.

“Why not? I told you I was planning on retiring. I ’ave a nice nest egg built up in the Caymans. I might even ‘ave enough to buy my own island.”

“But . . .” John started. Sherlock interrupted him.

“John, he protected you. It is time we protect him. The conservatorship is nothing compared to that.”

“Your freedom?”

“As long as you are with me, then I will put up with Mycroft’s meddling. As long as you stand beside me.” John and Sherlock stared at each other then back to Frankie. “Do you promise to leave? To disappear?”

“The bags are packed.” Frankie said as he screwed the cap closed on the bottle of scotch.

“And Mycroft?” John asked.

“I believe we can convince him the ‘Spider’ is dead. He was murdered in prison.” Sherlock glanced sideways at Frankie. “Your doing?”

“I couldn’t let ‘im mess up my travel plans.” Frankie said.

“But you stayed to tell me the truth,” John said.

“I owed it to your mum.”

“Then it is done and it is over.” Sherlock said with a clap of his hands.

John turned back and looked at Sherlock. “And us? What happens to us now?”

Sherlock took a moment to compose himself. “I was somebody you said you loved once. Is there a possibility that you could love me again?”

John smiled sadly. “I never stopped being someone who loved you.”

“Then I believe that answers your question John Watson. Because I never stopped loving you either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments and kudos. There will be a short epilogue and maybe a chapter of a total different story I'm beginning to work on.


	35. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter to end the story. Thank you again for your support and comments. It is very helpful. At the end is the first chapter of a new story that I'm working on. It is completely different from anything I've ever written. I would like to know what you think.

Epilogue

It had been six months since Jim Moriarty had been murdered. There had been a few leads but Mycroft quickly dismissed them and no further information was available. Struggling with a decision, he sat in his office going over the file one more time.

He looked at reports from Cardiff, Liverpool, and Dover. Since Moriarty’s death, there had been an ongoing war between different criminal factions. With his death, a vacuum had opened up in the smuggling world and various groups were fighting to fill it. Along with the increase in gang killings and retaliations, there was a decrease in the importation of drugs, contraband, and human smuggling into the UK. It was not what Mycroft was expecting but it was still good news.

The next report he read was about the decrease in successful bank robberies in London. Of the five attempts in the past six months, four had been stopped without the criminals leaving the banks. The fifth, and only ‘successful’ robbery, resulted in the criminals stealing less than five thousand pounds. And they were stopped at the Scottish border in a stole car. All most all the money had been recovered.

The crime rate seemed to have remained the same but the criminals had become far more inept and foolish. The well-planned crime was no longer taking place. It made Mycroft smile. Maybe Sherlock was correct in his assumption that Jim Moriarty had been the leader of the organization and that he had been eliminated in jail by a rival.

The only troubling thing was the newspaper clipping that he picked up next. It was a story about a fire at the dance club ‘The Enclave’. It had burned down two days after Moriarty had been killed. The owner of the club, Frankie Oskar, was found dead inside the building. Burned beyond recognition. The man’s DNA was not on record anywhere and his fingerprints had been obliterated in the fire. His identification was based on eyewitnesses that said they saw him enter the building alone and not leave before the fire.

Mycroft tapped his finger on the article. Of course he knew the name of the club. It was where Lieutenant Major James Sholto had been murdered. It was also where John had worked when Victor Trevor was killed. And it was where Moriarty kidnapped Sherlock from. It seemed the club was constantly coming up in whole affair regarding Moriarty.

Mycroft vaguely remembered the portly man who ran the club. He was from the Eastend and seemed to be of limited intelligence. Someone who was definitely not a threat.

_“Or was he?”_

Could Frankie Oskar’s conventional and unimaginative appearance been a façade? Could he have been the mastermind behind everything? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Had he and Sherlock been deceived?

Mycroft picked up the newspaper article and looked at the photograph of Oskar. He was a man in his early sixties. Bald, round face and slack jaw. His eyes were too small and seemed to sink into the folds of fat on his face. Mycroft smiled. There was no way someone who was obviously boring could possibly best him. Frankie Oskar couldn’t have been involved in any of the crimes except as only a minor player. Inconsequential.

He closed the file. It was over.

He pressed the intercom button and spoke to his assistant. “Would you please come in here with the document I requested earlier.”

“Yes, sir.” The disembodied voice answered.

A moment later the door opened and the young woman came in. She was wearing a royal blue pencil skirt and white oxford blouse. Around her slender neck was a single strand of pearls. Although conservatively dressed, it was still a splash of color that was uncommon in the office.

“Sir.” She held out the file. Mycroft smiled and took it from her. His eyes taking a moment to enjoy her appearance.

“Thank you, Anthea.”

“It is Rosaleen today, sir.”

“Rosaleen? Spelled R-O-S-A-L-E-E-N?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course, sir. Old English.”

Mycroft smiled. “It means beautiful rose.”

“Amongst other things, but yes, beautiful rose.” His assistant smile. “I decide today I was going to be an English rose today.”

“I approve of your choice.” He hesitated then said. “Please wait for a moment.”

His assistant’s switched her attention from him and back to her Blackberry.

Mycroft looked down at the document. He pressed his lips together and frowned. He wondered if he was doing the right thing. Yes, Sherlock had behaved himself and not returned to using drugs. And he was productive with Met.

John had not left either. He had stuck around, taking a job as locum tenens for a local clinic. Working part-time so he could run around London with Sherlock on his crazy investigation. They were happy and they were keeping their word to keep Sherlock clean.

Mycroft worried he was making a mistake, but he was an English gentleman and he gave his word. He picked up his fountain pen and signed the last page of the document. Folding it neatly, he slipped the order that rescinded the conservatorship into an envelope and sealed it.

“Please make sure my brother receives. It will be an appropriate wedding gift.” Mycroft said as he handed it back to his assistant.

“Won’t you be going to his and Dr. Watson’s wedding?” Rosaleen asked.

“No, I don’t believe my presence would be appreciated.” Mycroft frowned. Then he looked up at the woman. “But if you are available, I would be most please to take you out to dinner, my dear.”

Rosaleen nee’ Anthea smiled. “I’m sorry sir, I already have a date.”

How had he not noticed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1791 France  
> Paris in winter. The wind was cold off the Seine. Michelle shivered in her thin dress. Her slippers were worn, and she had wrapped rags around them to try and make them warmer. Her stockings were torn and soiled. She did not have a coat on. It would cover her up too much and the gentlemen like to see what they were buying before putting a coin in her hand.  
> Michelle glanced down at her pale blue dress. It used to be pretty with small white flowers embroidered across the fabric. But the flowers were dirty now and look more like speckles of spital instead of lilies. She noticed the lace had been torn at her shoulder. One of her previous clients must have down that. She frowned. She would have to repair it when she returned to her hovel in the morning.  
> Michelle shivered again as another breeze of cold air swirled around the buildings and into the ally where she was standing. The hem of the pale blue dress danced over the wet paving stones. Michelle wrapped her arms tightly around her body in hopes that her next visitor would have a cab she could climb into to service him. Or maybe a room somewhere. It would be dangerous to go off with a stranger, but she was cold and she was willing to risk her safety for a few moments of warmth.  
> The other women who lined the ally and spoke to various men who wandered passed them. The younger men would point and laugh. Waving their ebony canes and critiquing the various deficits each woman had. They would sneer and jest. Sometimes poking the women with their canes as they laughed. Michelle hated them.  
> Older men would rush in and grab a woman. Quickly pushing her into a dark corner to huff and grunt over her before quickly buttoning up his trousers and tossing the coins on the ground. Sometimes, Michelle wondered if they even paused to look at her face.  
> It was late and Michelle was still out working. Hoping for a few more coins so that she could get something to eat. Maybe make enough that she wouldn’t need to return to ally for a day or two. There were only one other woman left beside Michelle. She glanced up and saw him approach.  
> He was a tall man. He walked like a young man but not with swagger of youth. He paused for a moment and looked at the other woman. The woman smiled broadly and showed the missing tooth in her smile. The woman pushed up her bosom and wiggled her chest, cackling as she did so. He was unimpressed and walked on. He came up to Michelle.  
> His eyes were dark, almost black in the limited light of the ally. His skin fair. He was older than Michelle thought. His cheekbones were sharp and plains of his face smooth. He had no beard or mustache to hide his full dark lips. He stepped closer to Michelle and she shivered looking up into his predatory face.  
> “Mon petit.” His dark cape swept off his shoulders and over Michelle’s body.  
> He wrapped her up in is his wool coat. It was heavy, made of soft wool and satin lining, but retained no warmth from the previous wearer.  
> “No, monsieur. It is unnecessary.” But even as she said it, her fingers pulled the cloak closed over her small frame.  
> He leaned closer. “I have a carriage.”  
> She shook her head. Not five minutes earlier, the idea of a warm carriage would have made her flee the ally, but now she was rooted to the cold stones under her feet.  
> “No, I wish to stay here.”  
> “But mon petit, you are cold.”  
> “Yes, monsieur, but my friend . . .” Michelle glanced other, but the other prostitute had left. She was alone with the stranger.  
> “Let me warm you.” He purred over her. He leaned in closer and Michelle took a step back. His hand came up and captured her chin between his finger and thumb. Gently holding her face still as he looked at her. He smiled and Michelle noticed his teeth were unnaturally white.  
> “Please, monsieur . . .”  
> “You are so lovely, chéri.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  
> It was soft and gentle. A caress, a blessing. She shivered again but not from the cold.  
> He kissed her cheek and then turned her chin and exposed her neck. His lips slid down her throat. She felt his cool lips and his breath on her skin. Her heart was pounding. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thought something was wrong. Something was not right about the stranger.  
> “Monsieur?”  
> “Mon petit.”  
> Michelle felt something warm slip down her neck and over the rounds of her breasts. A slight sting in her neck. She blinked her eyes and leaned into the stranger’s body. He leaned back and smiled down at her. Michelle saw the blood on his teeth. His black eyes were now red.  
> She gasped wanting to scream but was unable to make a sound. He plunged forward and bit her again. She sagged in his arms as her blood stained her pale blue dress.


End file.
